Work Text:
Ozzy put down his phone, because the wilderness is calling. Anything with an open sky qualified as the wilderness, though he missed the clean island air, fine sand between his toes, gentle breeze in his wild curls.
He tied back those unruly locks into a secure knot, threw on some kicks, and launched into a sidewalk jog, air pods feeding him music with which to drown his doubts.
Why didn’t you play your idol?
Not that his mind’s voice didn’t have a booming cadence.
It’s bad enough he thinks it—it’s a habit almost as old as breathing now.
What are you, an idiot?
He can’t form the words to describe his pain. He can’t face the words assigned to him by armchair experts on social media either.
Is there anything to justify?
His gambit failed. He didn’t listen to his subconscious premonitions. Time and again, he got in his own way, ignoring his own intuition, because he was gullible enough to trust, and ultimately, he failed to use his words effectively.
He doesn’t need the world at large reminding him of his failure.
The urban wilderness, it’s calling.
It’s neither Fiji nor 2 million dollars, but it’s a break.