In the park one feels fairly good, so well I ignore how counterproductive it can be to walk there.
Being there is hefty when the sky stands so clear that my bulky mind melts down, in an insane attempt to contaminate the reasonable lethargy of what’s utterly ordinary.
Being there frees me whenever the muddy pebbles from last night’s hard showers seem to mirror the high canopies that scratch the still autumnish grey.
Itches to wander in a place that shows me how what’s pretty is also easy, when in truth it’s so rarely like that. But above all, by being there, I can go where no one else ever goes, whether it’s because they don’t want to or don’t know how to reach it. And I, knowing what they are missing, for them I feel strangely happy.