Walk

I have always needed to walk. I'm not trying to get anywhere. I am already there. I wander around a new place to understand how it fits together. I wander around an old place to tease it apart. I lose myself for hours. Sometimes I really get lost.

I love to explore. Whether it is the dark suburban streets of the Inner North, where drawn curtains, glowing at the edges, hint at a life behind. Or at dusk on one of Canberra's mountains, where I am as still as the magpies and kangaroos. Pausing as one in the dusty peach glow.

I don't feel afraid at night. This is my place.

Walking calms me. I think it is the rhythm. It takes me out of my head and into my body. In to place.

I walk fast. Stroking cool leaves as I pass. I collect tiny flowers. I smell damp soil, heady blossoms and cooking dinners. I smell the seasons changing.

I hear droning televisions. Muffled discontent. Humming street signs.

Possums turn to stone as I pass.

The dim street lights collect halos of bats and moths. Under one lonely spotlight my pale hands look like they are not my own.

When winter winds succumb to spring, I am intoxicated. When mild autumn evenings turn bitter and wild, I am exhilarated.

I wonder about the invisibility of the wind, moodily tossing hair about my face. Filling my ears. I love it all. If there is a full moon then I am done. I am undone. The blacks of my eyes are swollen with her secrets. I will not sleep.

Walking inspires me. I find myself somehow home writing about fallen magpies, falling leaves and hidden lives. It is past midnight and I am wide awake.