I realize I would much rather read someone else’s story than write my own. Why is that? I don’t want to touch upon my own unrealized, unactualized. My own story seems like a responsibility. To feel it. To write it. To stand behind it. And then I think I have to answer for it.
What if my untold story is funny? Like the woman on the trail today when she said “GooooMonin” It makes me think she is fun. She seems like a kid to me. Usually wearing bright, patterned colors. Her dogs seem like kids too, now that I think about it. She doesn’t take things seriously. She isn’t immediately heading for the responsibility hills- like I am. So, on those days where my walk is the task at hand- the thing I am doing to check off of the list- the disciplined act- I would much rather think of her fun and funny life than be in my militant mind and body which pumps me up the hill.
I can swing also to the other end of the spectrum when I hear a man who says “Goot Morn Ink”. It isn’t an accent. It is his way. Direct. He seems so super over responsible. His forced gait leaves steady tracks in the dirt which seem to have a presence of their own. It is true. Often those same tracks will last through the day on this high traffic path. Other hikers must sense the intensity of his step and choose to creep around these vibram reliefs in the dust, because I can often still see them in the afternoon. On those afternoons, in which it is afternoon because I have skipped my morning walk in order to lazily relish in my life. Those times that I can’t seem to get into rhythm. The rhythm of a strategy, that I think…. if I just crack it’s combination…. I will run this life of mine like one fine tuned machine. And until then, this sloth wallows.
My story is in between.