Monday, August 21, 2006

There's a place by the water somewhere in Boston. I couldn't tell you exactly where it is or what it's called because I've never gone there. My few trips into that city have somehow always been in those magic times when the leaves or changing or when the first buds of countless trees lining the streets begin to sprout. And each visit I walk out the front door of wherever I may be staying, take a right at the sidewalk and see where I end up.

I've explored quiet, small streets and bustling squares but no matter how lost I feel, somehow I always end up at this beautiful spot, a pier by the ocean where I watch the planes glide in across the bay to the airport on the other side of the water. There are very few places that exist in my mind outside of routine, outside of seasons and time and life. But this spot is at the core of all of them. Not someplace with a dot on a map. It's only accessible by wandering, by imagining, by losing my way and finding the most perfect dead end. Some people's dream of escape means tropical islands, or beautiful women or somewhere magical through the back of the wardrobe. But my dream is a solitary seat on those cement benches, dangling my feet out over the water below and slipping back into a what-could-be.


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