This morning I had a beautiful walk. The period of day awaiting the waking of the sun is one that seemingly allows time to walk more briskly, making way for a quicker and more efficient reach of its destination. The walker in question will rejoice in the new day’s goals, as to be walking at such a time means there is something more in store for the day.

Such was the case with this day. Upon the light’s arrival, it was more evident that there was a fog surrounding myself and clouding the atmosphere. The air was crisp, cool, and surprisingly, clean (but only before the humidity was met with the sun to make the fog), despite the dozens of machines racing right past me by the minute, ignoring the potentially vulnerable girl to their right with an obvious lack of defenses.

The fog was much like that you’d find in Silent Hill, and a pang of nostalgia which reminded me that this place was my very own Hell also brought to my attention just where I was going after this…

I’ve reached an age where no one place is home during these days. Whereas I have a territory, and property, I don’t have a sense of comfort. This same logic does not apply universally for the accompaniment of my friends, however, at least as this point in time. Some semblance of comfort can be reached in this case.

And so walking is not much of an issue. There is a new sense of health that accompanies the act of it. Even in the blazing, blistering, and frankly, hot Florida sun, I can ignore the fact my skin cells are screaming, constantly absorbing and needing a replenishment of the SPF dose I had given it fifteen minutes before and that the sweat dripping into my eyes is causing a burning sensation that even onions are not capable of. The salt is proportionated in this sense to the man-made canals just some miles further east that lay dormant in the backyards of the pseudo-winter-ridden families, which blankets my eye with one of those “wool” blankets you get from Grandma for Christmas only it’s scratchy as hell and you only ever use it to go hang out with your friends in the woods so you can have something to shield your clothes from the Earth.

This is something that Floridians and other like-climated Meditterraneans have to deal with year-round, even in the latest season of the year. It has become accustomed to, and the point at which complaining is universally deemed useless gets long passed early on. Kids grow thick skins here, and their clothing choices often and unavoidably get reflected in their behavior. On the teenager’s behalf, it’s hardly blamable that “trespassing” occurs when Auntie’s house with the pool is still a mile-and-a-half off and they’re walking by a rental with a clear one, now. It’s so fucking refreshing, if you don’t know what it’s like to be surrounded by perfectly-temperatured and forbidden waters. The thrill of it not being your water makes it all the more…exhilarating.

And so because I am only a girl, I succumb to the temptation of resisting effort and take the fucking bus. Walking it, fuck that. It’s not entertaining if you’re alone. I have to carry a bunch of shit. My caddies are not around. How would it even be worth it if I don’t have a cat to look forward to going home to…

pic related R.I.P. Fuzzy