A Place for Me

 

I don't believe the part of my brain that works like a microscope is a good thing.

 

The problem comes when I'm walking through the woods.  I don't see the trees or thick underbrush.  What I tend to mentally see are the insects moving about beneath the bark, the webs stretching across the trail and the chomping beetles just under the leaves.

        Sometimes I'd just like to be normal.  I would enjoy seeing the trees, just as trees.  I would appreciate simply hiking along the trail, not concerned with spider webs or things that slither, or buzz past my ear.

        Then again, maybe I’m supposed to be city dweller.  I just might be in the wrong location.  Walking along a city street I’d most likely notice the streaks left by the window washer, or the poor cement job between the bricks of a building.  Although it can’t always be imperfections I notice.  Surely, I’d be able to see the warm glow of apartment lights coming from the windows along the side streets.  I know I would enjoy the aromas wafting out of the bakeries, and Italian restaurants, and the echo of my steps as I walk between the tall buildings.

        No.  That can’t be it.  I’d never make a good city person.  I would miss hearing the birds and seeing the wind dance through the trees.  Driving along a country road has its own feel.  Passing a field of cows, grazing, swatting at flies with their tails and looking up as I drive past, saying, “People.”