Incheon, South Korea February 2, 2026
Going through this solo makes you question your own sanity.
You look in the mirror and think: What the fuck are you doing? Are you nuts? Are you crazy?
There is no cheerleading squad. There is no one jumping up and down on the sidelines, waving pom-poms and screaming, “Go James! Abandon your life! Burn the ships!”
No one is funding you. No one is giving you instructions. There is no manual, no map, no “How-To Guide for the Mid-Life Fugitive.” There is no one to bounce ideas off of. There is no balance.
It is just you.
And the silence is loud enough to break glass.
The Ghosts at the Bar
I have sat at many bars in my life. I have nursed drinks next to men who talked a big game about the “Great Dream of Independence.” They spun yarns about leaving it all behind, about sailing around the world, about buying a cabin in the woods.
But I saw it in their eyes. They knew they were throwing their lives away for the illusion of the American Dream. They were chaining themselves to the oar while talking about the open sea.
My own organic father made those claims. Countless men in my life have made those claims. And they all died in the same zip code they were born in.
The Deathbed Audit
As I watch the sun rise over the grey industrial haze of South Korea, I have flashes of those men on their deathbeds.
The house is paid off. The money is in the account. The pension is secure.
And they are waiting for death, alone, in a room that smells like disinfectant and regret.
Ask them what they regret. They don’t regret the work. They don’t regret the bills. They regret the flight they didn’t take. They regret the moment they stood at the edge of the cliff and decided to walk back to the car.
Not getting on that plane doesn’t keep you safe. It just ensures that you die wondering.
The Marlboro Man Protocol
This is the Wild West. This is Normandy. This is something deeply, terrifyingly masculine.
The Marlboro Man wasn’t just selling cigarettes; he was selling the idea that a man could be alone and still be whole. He tapped into that primal desire to crawl under a tree and just be.
We spend our lives looking for peace in all the wrong places. You can’t find peace in a woman. (She brings chaos.) You can’t find peace in a job. (It brings stress.) You can’t find peace in kids or social status. (They bring obligation.) And money? Money buys comfort, but it does not buy peace.
The Quarter in the Well
That is all we want. Peace.
Drop a quarter down the well. Listen. Wait for it. Wait for the plink at the very bottom of the pit.
That sound? That is what you are looking for. That is the Peace.
And you have to find it there, in the dark, at the bottom.
You have to earn it. You have to hop on that plane. You don’t wait until the last minute. You don’t wait until the hospice nurse is adjusting your pillow. You don’t wait until the point of no return.
Just do it.
If you are going to enjoy this life, you have to do it all the way. You have to strip the gears. You have to burn the fuel.
That isn’t a “poke” on Facebook. That isn’t a motivational poster in a break room.
That is a Goddamn Mantra.
I am here. I am alone. And for the first time in fifty-seven years, the silence doesn’t scare me.
It sounds like music.
