I had two things on my mind while I was walking:

1. How can I find simplicity?

I’m a maximalist. While I wish that were only true in my design preferences, it’s actually something take follows me through my life and often robs me of the peace of mind I might otherwise have in a given situation. And I’m not entirely sure how to make it stop. I’ve been loading things up for storage, but what is overwhelming is that I have a lot… of stuff that I love. I don’t really have excessive utilitarian items; in fact, I think my tool collection is rather lacking and I want to try reducing it. What I have is things I love to look at, to surround myself with.

Yes, yes, I’m building a house in the relatively near future, and I will be able to fill it with many of those things. How do I, in the meantime, let go of some of the things that don’t really need to go with me. The things that I’ve attached a meaning to, but which do not have any great significance themselves.

I considered not putting this on here. They were my walking thoughts, sure. But I did think about not including them because in my mind they aren’t directly related to my health journey. Aren’t they though? Why would I set out to work so hard on getting my body healthy, but just ignore something that needs to be addressed simply because it is happening in my head.

2. Why am I a poet?

Or really, why is anyone? Of course I don’t mean that in a what even is the point of this sort of way. I actually find great value in poetry, not just for myself, but for humans more broadly. What I mean by the question is what causes some people to communicate in this way? I think about this a lot actually. The three people I spend the most time around are my two brothers and my closest friend (and housemate). All three of them have expressed how they “don’t understand” poetry or “I wish people would just say what they mean” (meaning I suppose that authors should just be direct and get to the point). And I don’t mind them not getting it; I have poetry friends who I can talk about this stuff with. What it does make me think is that our brains have taken very different paths to this point. That second point in particular–“I wish people would just say what they mean”–is interesting. I hear that one probably the most, or some variation on that theme. But when I employ metaphor to compare my fingers to worms or write about walking and talking with a long dead person, I am saying what I mean. I am getting to the point quickly. In fact, I’m getting there more quickly than if I had to say what I have to say without the metaphor. If I break my sentence up on the page, I am doing that intentionally as well. It’s what feels right in that moment. It’s how I processed information and how my brain needed to communicate that information. I’m not exactly E.E. Cummings, but I do understand why he was so interested in making his readers work to enjoy his words. I have no evidence of this, but I think it is just as likely that Cummings was doing exactly what I do from day to day, but also wanted his readers to see the world in the same way. So he attempted to force it. That isn’t to say that one way of viewing the world is necessarily better than another. Of course not. But it is endlessly fascinating that there are people in this world who aren’t moved to spend hours writing when the sun crests over the horizon is a certain way.

[Walk #81]