You can gauge a lot about people by sitting and watching.  Their clothes tell the story they want, their gaits what they can’t hide.  Who we are travels down our spines and our legs and hips bear the message.  How world beaten some seem.  How others convey their calculations or pride. 

It’s no wonder the slow walk gets so much attention.  That a simple, languid glide expresses a type of confidence found deep within.  A lack of general concern or burden.  Slow walkers make the trouble.  Draw others in while noticing none of them. 

That’s not to say slow walkers are without doubts.  But those are perception doubts, not soul ones.  It makes me smile when I see it; finding a moment of relief in the sea of crazy washing by me. 

What really gets me is watching the rhythms.  How people move, the beat they follow.  To think that all of these people have sex…or want to.  How most have no idea about their own energy. 

The jazz on the speakers overhead reminds me of this and helps me wander all at the same time.  That the prescribed still contains a great deal of freedom.  That “The Way” is an onus if it is not multi-faceted.  Watching boy scouts and some-kind-of-wannabes, prima donnas and second-guessing-beauties.  Do people really believe they are who they project to be?  Do they know I can see their truth?  Can they see it?  Do they want to? 

It has been a week since I moved out.  Took ownership of my life and myself to walk back into the great unknown.  I am fully terrified, but in so many ways free.  And I know those parts are fighting to the death, I can feel it deep into my bones.  The type of exhaustion that can’t be mended by sleep; sleep won’t come.  The overwhelming tiredness that tells you that you can stand up to anything.  That in spite of yourself, you are strong.  That facing this battle, staring it in the face, is your strength.  We are all afraid, but we cannot be paralyzed. 


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