Saturday mornings I wake up slowly, letting the headache of sleep fall away from the bed and the covers and the cold. When I roll over to meet the light sifting in from my window, I can almost see the singular particles roving around. Or is it merely the dust? Outside I can hear the lazy traffic rumbling against the asphalt and cobblestone. My body stays asleep until I put the bones back in place.
On colder mornings, I move in autopilot. The sandwich of cold air is layer like this: floor, cold, warm, ceiling. A layer of dust films over my nose and presses down on my lungs. When I get up I imagine leaving and walking somewhere. I imagine getting lost and not coming back.
Edward Abbey stands in awe of the Arches. When morning comes he finds a new landscape. I almost say the landscape is waiting to be seen, or waiting for something, but this is untrue. The Arches simply are. The landscape simply is. And yet, Abbey desires the land and wants to take possession of it “as a man desires a beautiful woman” (5). The overwhelming beauty of what he sees makes him hungry for possession and awakens a greedy desire to know the land and, therefore, make it his.
I wonder if it is possible anymore to find such beauty. I’m sure the beauty exists, but I wonder how attainable it is, how well can one come to know any one place anymore. How can place compete with the entirety of human greed? I want to walk away and get lost and find some place new. I don’t know if it will be new altogether, but at least new to me. I want to explore a place and know it, know how to get anywhere because I’ve gone everywhere. I don’t know if I would feel greedy and want to be the only one who would know that place like I would, but if there was someone else who knew that place like I might, I don’t think I’d want to cross paths. There is something peaceful in perceived solitude.
On the other hand, maybe it would be nice to think of having a sort of companion on the journey. I could still walk alone, but not feel the loneliness of being the only one.