Canyon Lake: The First Introduction

The First Introduction

I waltzed through the bush, ignoring the wide-open road inches from my feet. I missed the forest. The seclusion, not only from how daringly large the world looked, but from the sun as well. But this is what it was all for. Couldn't go forgetting that now. I'd been walking for no less than 400 million days, and the sun had burned this delirium into the back of my eyes all the way into my throat. When I spoke out loud I lied to myself. Yet I had to talk. If I didn't, I'd forget. I may have been running, but I wasn't running to forget. 

 Once or twice a day I'd have something that would pull my being back into the center of my forehead. Usually a truck horn or promise of fresh food. Today it was a small thwacking noise from my foot, and then the much louder one of me smacking my face right into the ground. I sat there a while, wondering if in the blazing hot plains of the desert, someone miles away sat with binoculars on their porch laughing at me. I sat up if that was the case, didn't need them to be concerned. 

 I flipped over in such a way as to make eye contact with my assailant, though he just lay there in the dirt. Browner than the muted reds and sage green surrounding it. It seemed as if it was emerging, a gift from gods red earth itself. Or maybe the devil was pushing it up from hell. Either way, I shimmied close enough to pull it out. 

 I was disappointed to realize it wasn't a military cache full of water and snacks and a hand fan, but just an old book. Dirtier than me in my current state. I decided to see if I could read it while using my peripherals to center me in the lane of oncoming traffic. Oncoming so there was a better chance of them seeing me, not that I anticipated diving head-deep into an enthralling story. 

 But I'd be lying if I said I didn't. I almost immediately returned to the roadside brush, where I strung a sheet onto my bindle and made camp. Right there on the roadside in the broad light of day. I suppose I had nothing but time, but I really had nothing but time. And now an old diary. 

I had read the whole thing through twice before I found myself half burying it in the dirt back where I found it. I grabbed my stuff and started running. In the moment I thought it'd do something good for me, ignoring the fact id just spent two read-throughs with the thing cradled in my hands. I suppose the second time through I was a bit more modest in how touchy we were getting. 

 I'd spent the last few hours reading the words of a madman. A sad, lonely, lost, scared man. And it just so happened to be the words of myself. I'd written this diary every day of my high school years. It was the day of graduation I skipped town. I vowed to never look back and I buried the book in my backyard along with that part of my life. 

 But here I was 700 miles of distance between me and whoever that used to be, and the devil himself must've found it funny when he plucked the book from my backyard and shoved it up right into my feet. 

 It wasn't until the next morning that I saw the beauty in it. 

 A chance to leave my head. To return, mentally, to the man I was before. To consider all I've done. Every thought worked through, every mile walked. I read of loneliness while reminiscing on encounters I had. People that made me feel seen. I could remember the feelings he put on the page. No matter how fearful I once was. Those words couldn't hop off the page and into my lap. They weren't scorpions that could bite and sting me until I woke up in my bed to cheers of graduation day, no. No, those words weren't there to hurt me. It was a happy reminder. To visit that part of my head and leave it there. To move on but also not physically. Change can't come in if you don't welcome it, but the past waits for your farewell.