I wish I could yearn to write the way I yearn to walk. The art of strolling began after my first big deception, and although I’ve long come to from the initial trauma, the walks have remained indispensable to the pruning of my soul.
A walk is like a cup of coffee. It takes time to refine, to perfect. It’s a ponderous act. It’s a sensual digestive act, and one that leaves you with a feeling of refreshment. I don’t often feel refreshed, but I associate the word with the feeling of cold hair bunched up in in a fist.
The perfect walk, like the perfect cup of coffee, is savored slowly. Delicious is the absolute lack of destination that characterizes them: it all goes to rot if you’re pressed for time. And there is nothing worse than being waited for – no! Better to imagine that I’m being awaited at the end of the road, quite unexpectedly of course, at the evening hour of church bells.
Time passes for me too, although I am young, and clinging obsessively to youth as if it’s already gone. Who it is that jealously keeps trying to snatch it away, I do not know. Stop wanting so much, I tell myself. Be simple, like your shadow, and happy with small pleasures. Picking out cherries one by one at the market. Hanging clean laundry to dry in the morning sun. Walks before the dying light – both the dying light of day and that which Dylan Thomas defies.
Still, the dying light is a caress in the right color. Golden, water-washed, familiar like a book of fairytales. Enough with philosophy for now. It is summer, fuzzy green overrides our little world and the breeze whistles flute-like in duet with the padding of white tennis shoes on the pavement.