I turn to my body, work to lose fat, gain muscle, to feel better, look better, to be loved and live longer and well.

A way to succeed without money.

I feel great, which is good, right?

A way to get through the terror.

Then one morning, out of nowhere, I realized it'd been a long time since I'd gotten high, and months since I'd even thought about buying. Yet in the interim food, music, sex, movies, cycling, even chores, it all felt good enough, and I was happy.

I looked back at a life I barely knew and could explain to no one, and kept it to myself.

I reflect on my privilege and it shames me that all I’ve done with it is take the easy road to a difficult time.

But it also shames me – does it? – that all I wanted to do was nothing, to potter about and fritter away my hours, to feel alive, to love and be loved.

And in this I succeeded.

I imagined I was someone else.

Hours passed in this way.

Years.

By most accounts it was already too late to make another life, but I did what needed to be done, and it happened.

It was weak, and it was wonky, but it was different to what came before, and most of all, most especially, it was mine, and I'd live it until the time came for a new one.

We were 23, 24, and she said she was sad because she knew she'd have an ordinary life, and I said that greatness came from within, and she could step into something incredible at almost any moment, it just took a slight shift in perspective and commitment to the dream, a certain recklessness that disdained all normative achievement, which was - and in this she was right, although I didn't say it - clearly out of reach for average dullards like ourselves who had no talent, drive, connections or luck, never mind ambition.

Time proved she was right, as she usually was, and she mapped out a decent, secure future that's now mostly in the past, with everything expected in her class.

I did worse, of course, but still feel I've lived, and live, a remarkable life on the margins, one marked by self-indulgence and contentment, albeit mostly within my own head and inexplicable to sensible people like her.

I take a detour, cycling off road then through a forest, come across a gravel path and follow it until there's the rumble of cars and trucks and a narrow overpass encased in a cage to stop people jumping down or throwing stones into the traffic, giving in to the pull of death.
There's a gas station on one side of the highway, and a Burger King, too, the first I've seen in this country.

I left my wallet at home, but have €10 in my pocket, more than enough for my needs.

Is this not happiness?

So happy in the morning, then a day full of idiot, animal joy.

The sun hits the terrace just right for my purposes, and I set down a beach towel so it follows the line of my shadow, fold up a smaller towel as a pillow, then lay down, a white sarong over my head. A timer set for 10 minutes, then I turn over, all the while listening to a book about paleobotany and tripping out in the Mesozoic, feeling the old life within.

Next round the timer's set for 5 minutes, then I've done enough damage for the day and chill inside with some freshly squeezed lime juice, soda water from the fridge, a handful of ice and stainless steel straw, that white sarong around my waist showing off the pink on brown so I look a little healthier, teeth and eyes a little whiter, the possibility of attraction slightly raised.

This is my summer vacation.