Spring has come to the oaks and I miss my boyfriend. I see a lonely, flat graveyard passing by and feel the loss of death. A single car, parked and its driver lost among the headstones, reflects a point of sunlight in the matte dispair. Earlier, I deleted Ferne from my mobile. She’s not going to call again.
What would this be like now? What would that have been like then? Ferne moved to Carmel Valley for her lungs. I love her and she’s gone.
Life is here, interesting and elusive. Where would I hit snow if I escaped to the east? Maybe we all are escaping. And what’s wrong with that?
When life clamors and rattles my psyche, I want to escape to the trail. I know the simplicity: food, water & shelter. My body. My lungs. My legs. The joys when sharing. The elation of of independence. The mastery of now. The mystery of an hour from now. The loss of the last mile.
On the trail I am doing one thing, and there’s only one thing to do. Even as I sit and write this last part, there are other things to do and the clock is ticking. I have decisions to make, and those decisions reform the hours following. It’s not all going to get done, and that creates a little background anxiety to add to the mix.
I know how to live in this world, and I know what it’s like to live on the trail. It is true that I must live in this world to spend time living on the trail. It’s what I choose to do so that I can return to the simpler days.