Creeper Walk

I went for a walk yesterday. I grabbed my tattered, brand-new backpack full of stuff and headed toward the town park. I've been feeling low of late and I felt a stroll would help.

I set off down the street with my iPod on shuffle and feeling rather fine. I walked toward the park without incident, but when I got there there there was a group of people. This part of the park is an old rock quarry that had been converted into a public garden. I looked down at the group of people and sort of watched them all creeper-like. I think I may have scared them away because they left presently. There was also a young couple that was having a sort of photo-shoot that I also may have scared away.

When the people were gone, I walked down the stairs and stared into the scummy water of the pond. I quietly contemplated my life and where it would soon lead me. I thought about the few friends I have and how odd my behavior tends to be when I am around others of my species. I thought about the drama club I joined and how I just didn't quite fit in with the people there. I reflected upon how most of my life I've been left-out. Even in my circle of close friends I often feel out-of-place.

I walked up the stone stairs opposite the ones I had descended. I briefly remarked upon the beauty of the changing leaves. I continued walking past the tennis and basketball courts. I paused on the bridge that spanned a now-empty drainage ditch and thought that I could probably make a philosophical statement about the situation, but I couldn't be bothered.

I crossed the road, after that bit, to the children's park were an old World War Two airplane and tank now serve their country by becoming playground equipment amongst the swings and slides. I climbed the tank and realized that my shoes are a bit big for my feet. Once atop the tank I unstrapped my backpack and pulled from its contents the workings of my novel.

Map depicting the land Tylacanna, from my novel.

It was there, sitting on a decommissioned tank, that I realized my writing style is rubbish for a novel as I tell the story mostly in a passive voice, whereas all the 'good' novels (i.e.: Harry Potter) are written with an active voice. I also tend to give all too much detail in all the wrong places, such as completely unnecessary but incredibly detailed historical background.

I gave up on my draft and instead turned toward people-watching. I saw several things, namely: a couple lying on the grassy hill talking, two teenaged girls on the airplane, one of those new-age dads about to kill himself trying to impress his kid on the playground equipment, a guy riding dangerously fast down the hill on a bicycle, three guys playing Frisbee, three guys playing basketball in their attempt to impress a group of poorly dressed teen girls standing in a circle texting.

These girls angered me, though I know nothing about them. Something--in the way they dressed, the way their  hair was cut, the way they held themselves--made me want to drop-kick a puppy into shark-infested water. They made me think about all that is wrong in our society. For one prejudiced moment I took every sorrow, every anger, and every fear this world has, and I laid all the blame upon that group of girls who where standing in a circle, texting.

I left the park.

I reentered downtown and sat on a curb and yelled at myself in a Scottish accent so that all the cars passing could know what I think about me. A group of twelve-ish-year-old girls stared at me and one of their mothers basically asked me why I was being so creepy. She must think that I am an escaped mental patient.

Maybe next time I will go down to that curb and eat vanilla pudding out of a mayonnaise container.