Tree City, USA

For the last six years I've spoken of my hometown with nothing but disdain. Garland viewed from the driver's side of my Volvo S40 is nothing special; eyesores are all I can see through the 10 year-old film on my windshield. All the pawn shops with barred windows, cracked, graying asphalt, and a ghost town square were as good as radioactive ash. I figured that nuking the place was the best option.

Today I ran 8.44 miles here. I'm not sure if it was my being lower to the ground or just trotting by more slowly that opened my eyes. Barefoot running makes me feel at one with the earth, or cement, or whatever; I feel a connection to my surroundings. I have more time to process what's in my iconic store. It had been raining and the Duck Creek was full, the sky grey and the trees as vibrant green as I've seen them. There were pretty little puddles for me to waltz through to lift my spirits. Joggers and bikers waved hello. There were sidewalks.

At 18 I drove, ate and fucked too fast. In that state all one can see is blurred yellow lines and whatever's at chest level. At 24 my scantily clad feet show me the underground, the individual cubes of road and tan tipped grass blades, my turf, my hood. Garland, I think we can be friends.

I run to see.