I want to haul my ass into an aeroplane, fly it to England. I want to, I could, so why don't I?

What would I do there, what would it change. It',d change nothing, but perhaps it'd make me happier. Perhaps I'd feel less lonely for a few moments.

Another night spent dreaming of happiness and other things I cannot achieve. And I don't even know why I'm dreaming anymore, I don't think I even want the kind of life I foolishly imagine would make me happy. because it isn't the kind of life I want. It isn't the life for me. It's based on what I think should be fun.

I want to go to England to be close to someone I miss. That's my only reason for going there. And that sounds so demanding. Think of the guilt if things didn't work out. Think of the money spent. Think of what I could achieve if I was lucky. And suddenly I don't know if it'd be worth it.

I keep hoping for a phonecall. I keep wondering if I could call.