Most of my life has been taking care of myself. Taking care of others. I don’t have the best things or tons of pictures to share of my travels. I did travel. When, I was done it was over. It was for me and who was there. An airline pilot friend taught me that.
Only bring a camera when you’re too old to do it again.Airline pilot friend, 2003
I’m not too old for someone. Maybe it was all the couples I saw over the long weekend in Phoenix Arizona. Showing everyone what it looks like being in love. It looked foreign like when you read a menu and try to pronounce things. Loaf? Loooooo-aaaaahhhhh-phhhhhhh.
I tried it once.
It was so, exhausting. Not in a good way. It was very one sided and was the reason I got up every morning. Made coffee before daylight. Grabbed my bag and hopped on my bicycle. Rain. Snow. Desert heat. I was okay because I was in love.
Not being in love. I hesitate. Why? Why?
What’s the point of this? Servitude. When did things become so unequal. I don’t think it’s feminism. Racism. Popular culture. Or. Social media.
I think it’s when we decided altogether what love will look like in some group meeting I missed. Must have been a live video on Facebook. Anyways. Now, many people will spend the rest of their lives waiting for that love. That love only that everyone can achieve with enough reverse mortgages and credit cards. That love is enough and anything else is nothing. The one everyone says is flowers, vacations, and spend-spend-spend.
If he does not do that it is not love.
Meanwhile. I’ll get up before dawn. I’ll make coffee. I’ll grab my bag and hop on my bike. Heat. Rain. Snow.