Despite being allergic to nature, I love being outside.
I love to lay on my trampoline at night with my eyes closed. I like listening to the leaves mingle with their branches and the lull of passing cars. I like having what feels like an eternity to overthink everything and nothing at all. I like the realizations I make while I lay with nothing to do. Like how every passenger in the cars driving past me have stories of their own. That these rambunctious teens nodding along to the thumping bass of their radio in their old pick-up truck, have a story. I like knowing that people have places to be and people to meet. It gives me hope that I, too, will be a passenger.
But, not the ones who creep down the road, hesitant of making a wrong turn, or the ones that hastily make their way down the street, missing opportunities to absorb the culture around them. No, I aspire to be a different sort of passenger. The sort that reside on the sidewalk, not in a car. One who walks to a quaint, obscure café to just sit. A passenger that parks with no plans for their evening besides a warm cup of coffee. Someone that dedicates a time slot for a serendipitous opportunity, in which they just wander.
thanks for reading
