In Motion

I spend a lot of time walking.

During the day I'll walk to school or work. I'll walk to meet a friend, or to get coffee. At night, I like to go walking with my ipod. The music is important, and a fairly good indicator of my mood, but it's the motion that's vital. Being still is problematic.

I've always been a walker. In high school I'd walk the same route around my neighborhood every night, generally listening to Keane, or the Doctor Who soundtrack. Occasionally, I'd mix it up with some Beatles or Amy Winehouse. I think I also listened to a lot of Queen. I'd walk the same streets every night, literally wandering in a circle. Surprisingly for someone with as minuscule an attention span as myself, the walk never bored me. I looked forward to it, and after a while, I needed it. I'm not sure why. Maybe the repetition comforted me. Maybe the act of walking and mentally reciting the lyrics to Under the Iron Sea was some sort of adolescent meditation. Maybe walking alone in the dark made me feel more interesting and mysterious. Maybe it was just nice.

It's interesting. I used to be able to churn these things out in minutes. Stream of consciousness writing is easy, or at least, it was. I haven't done this in a while, and since then, the entire universe seems to have become exponentially more complicated. My life has always been sort of narrative, in a way. It wasn't exactly complex, unless I made it complex. I had a tendency to blow things out of proportion. I was often anxious about inane things. I didn't feel my life was worth living unless it was dramatic and impressive.

Since I last wrote, I've seen and done a lot of strange things. I am both entirely different and exactly the same. I'm so far removed from that person in the RSR booth rambling about haunted doors and Eric Roberts. A part of me is glad for that. The other part hopes she isn't gone.

I've always said the world is very strange.