WInterlife

A walk in wintertime becomes something more, and yet remains what it's always been.

I damn the snow as I sloshed through the slush, leftovers from a snowy rainstorm last week that now mountained the curbs, allowing cars through the streets, giving people chances to cross almost entirely only at driveways and corners. When I was young, I wouldn’t put the snow to the curb, but on my front lawn, making quite the mountain of frost, before digging into it and creating an igloo. It was vital for the snowball wars. But today, I don’t care. I don’t even shovel the snow; I have people to take care of that for me. But as I walk, surrounded by the mounds, my boots dragging and squelching through the slush left scattered around, I wish there were a hole carved right in the snow next to me. I would like to crawl into it, sit on the snow seat waiting for me inside, and just watch the people pass me by for a little while. Mass should be letting out of the Church soon, and people will walk by this mound of snow, and if I were seated in it, I would watch them. Perhaps I would see someone I know and call to them. Maybe the snow fort is carved large enough for two and I could sit with a friend. Maybe they’d have a cup of cocoa we could share.

 

But I determinedly continue my walk. This is an adventure, with no destination in mind. I’m simply walking, thinking, and being. I debate going into the Church for a moment, to hear the end of the service. I haven’t been to mass in a long time. But I decide to uphold the abstinence and continue walking South. I imagine as I walk that the winter is warming with my proximity to the equator growing. I cross over the train tracks, an imagined border, and I am in a different part of the neighborhood, and of the world. I shed my jacket and leave it on the ground. I will leave it by the tracks to return for it later. It keeps getting warmer as I walk, not just in my imagination. The snow is gone, replaced by sandy patches spotting the land around me. Sand on dirt, and simple houses built of stone. This is Native territory. I tread cautiously, not wanting to offend anyone, just vagrantly meandering southward.

 

I decide that, perhaps, it is a good idea to head back East. I am perhaps a little lost, but I can always find my way home eventually. After walking for a while, I stop, questioning my reason. Why am I walking? Adventure, I tell myself; it’s all about the adventure. But where would I end up? Back home in the end. That is not what I want this to be about. It could be about the journey itself, the trip I’m taking being The Trip, where I am and always want to be. But no, I want to GO somewhere. I want to DO something. What I’ll normally go for is no longer sufficient. I want to take the next step. I want to go further. I want more to my trip, my adventure, my life. A Quest. A Purpose. The one thing that will never ever be handed to me by anyone else, no matter how much I ask.

 

I abandoned my schooling, I abandoned my family, I abandoned my friends, I abandoned my country, and some would say I abandoned my life, although I know that I gave the next eight years of my life building my vessel. Damning the government, I wandered into the first wood I could find. Not caring who “owned the property”, I cut down the trees I like the most. I built, by myself, with my own two hands, a house boat that would serve as the vessel for my quest. I took it out to sea and sailed for another two years. Many would try to take me in, claiming I had no legal right to be out here on my boat. But I always seemed to talk my way into being let on with my journey. For a while, the quest was fulfilled. I was on the boat, enjoying it again. I had done it. But it soon was not enough.

 

I suppose it is the curse of humanity, to always want more. The Seven Deadly Sins all so closely tie to the inherent desire of humans. But perhaps it is a blessing too, for everything has two sides. Without it, we wouldn’t be what we are, for better or for worse. And if we’re happy with that, then we are happy. But if we’re not, then well, we’ll change it. But unless it changes, we’re happy enough to let it be, and so we’ll keep on doing what we do. I put down my whisky and my pen and stand up. I go to the helm and head towards port. I eventually arrive back outside my old home, and suddenly I haven’t aged a bit. The past ten years were with me, but they were also without me their own entity, and I mine. I’ll depart from what I disdain, and keep with me what’s worth it. I go back inside, get in bed, and go to sleep. It’s time to dream another life. Maybe it’ll be one I’ve lived before. Maybe not. It’s all the same to me. Life.