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It’s all about my inner narcissist …

When it comes to my weekday afternoon and weekend morning walks, it’s really all about me.

I channel my inner narcissist which is only concerned with the narrow goals of me as apply to what I am about to encounter over the course of 2.54 miles. There is no wide, more encompassing 360 degree view. It is all about what’s along the route on both sides of the sidewalk or laying in the gutter or across the street and within seconds of easy retrieval.

What else could explain the urge/compulsion/mania to get after it during what ought to be simply a stroll for exercise or relaxation sake like so many normal people seem to enjoy. Maybe it’s symptomatic of larger issues but, honestly, there is a tunnel vision effect once I hit the bricks. I envision the worst case scenario of what could happen to some piece of junk if allowed to lay fallow. Why is it there, where will it go, what will happen to it? My glass is perpetually half empty on this topic.

I dunno, perhaps what I do bypasses normality and is symptomatic of larger issues, but what the hell. I'd be driven crazier if this junk was allowed to lay around.

I dunno, perhaps what I do bypasses normality and is symptomatic of larger issues, but what the hell. I’d be driven crazier if this junk was allowed to lay around.

Truly, there is no impact on me whatsoever in terms of what passerby think of the strange man putting stage things into a bag. They move on and so do I. They have their thoughts about what they see and I have mine. Perhaps at some point they have a silent appreciation as to why the Colony/Sharon/Fairview corridor seems relatively nice and tidy. My contrarian view is why is there so much junk here? It’s just the way it is. Both sides deal with it.

No doubt there is some goody two shoes phenomenon at work here. But if this makes me a situational narcissist, so be it. Hopefully that psychological shortcoming ends when I walk in through the door.

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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