“I need to get away from the city,” I said, to one of my favourite, fatherly customers. “Again.”
“You don’t need to get away,” he corrected. “You just choose to go somewhere else.”
I love him.
The cars, the lights, the whizzing, the honking, the overall noise.
I find myself put off by the people rushing. The disconnect with each other. The “serve me first” mentality.
I want to get away. Wait a minute – correction – I choose to go somewhere else, albeit temporarily.
To sleep with the van windows open, allowing the cold, ocean breeze in all night. To not set an alarm – to wake when the moments happens, without force or schedule. To emerge from my van bed with my man by my side. To enjoy the art of making french-press coffee, not served in a disposable cup. To curl up in my thick, wool sweater that smells like smoke and sea salt and cedar trees. To dance on the beach with my hula hoop, sans music. To venture into the swelling waves and take another jab at my “surf dance.”
I long for the space. The clarity. The time.
It’s not the city that I run from; it’s the wild I run to.
Stay wild my friends.
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