I had my earbuds in my ears, volume up above healthy levels, blasting Rihanna’s We Found Love when I got distracted thinking how funny it was that I walked the same paths almost every day, yet have never run into the same people that pass me by walking their dogs or rushing to work.
There’s no better therapy to me than going for a long walk when it feels that harming thoughts, anything, or anyone is trapping me. 17520 hours later, I still walk the same walk, breathe the same air. Different faces everywhere, but same air. And the road seems friendly even with its unusual faces, the faces that appear along the way in human and other forms. An oddity, maybe, just like everything else: the familiar gets lost in such a small place.
What if they are the same people and I’m always so lost in thought that I don’t recognize them at all? I couldn’t even describe to you the mailman’s face or my neighbor’s dog. Give me another year, though.
But despite the unfamiliarity, it feels safe—or safer—to keep myself surrounded with the unknown known. Some of us whine if we’re not acknowledged; some of us whine if we are. If acknowledged, I’d have to remove my earbuds from my ears to say hi; I’d have to stop my therapeutic thinking for a quick chit-chat; I’d have to stop thinking about the things I think when I write, which I sometimes do on the spot.
Knowing they’re there without knowing much about them is perhaps the key to this stable commuting relationship. And so far, the road, the unknown, and I are getting along just fine.
