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Or am I part of the disease?

As usual this morning, there is usually one song – and usually one song only – that is set on replay in my brain as I step through the door for my walk.  The song de jour at 6:35 a.m. was Clocks by Coldplay.

There are two lines of the wonderful lyrics that caught my attention. I’d sung the words to myself many times but until today’s stroll had never really applied them to the purpose of my daily jaunt:

Am I part of the cure?

Or am I part of the disease?

I’m sure on a good many things I am part of the disease. But it is this one sliver of doing good where I might contribute to the solution. After 90 minutes of stowing all manner of junk in a thinly stretched bag, it occurs to me there are a whole lot of people who could use some sort of vaccine to remedy their habitual slovenliness.

That, or a lobotomy.

Nearly a bag-buster today. My ounce of cure was worth about 4 pounds of prevention this morning.

Nearly a bag-buster today. My ounce of cure was worth about 4 pounds of prevention this morning.

 

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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