No Train to Stockholm

Chicago, IL: It’s 5:03am. I’m listening to Cowboy in Sweden by Lee Hazlewood. It’s dark outside. I’m getting ready to leave for the airport. The walk I’m about to take to the train is becoming a ritual. Something about that makes me feel good. I have a bag packed with the usual: books, notebook, clothes, camera and music. In a few hours I’ll be in Portland. I met some good people out there a few months back, and I’ll be staying with them again.

This might be my last trip this year. Since January, I’ve walked through Portland, Austin, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, Minneapolis, Seattle, Dallas, the San Francisco Bay Area and now Portland again. I’m trying to do all I can with the time I have. I don’t know that I am, but I’m trying. The time is all there is. It demands to be valued and respected. It’s worthless if it’s not worth everything. When I’m home, I tend to get caught up in where I’ve been and where I’m going. It’s disrespectful to where I am and I know that. So I try to keep going. I want to keep living on less and doing more. I want to leave a dent in the next year that’s larger than the one it leaves in me. I should go.

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