Well, as you can plainly see, the possibilities are endless like meandering paths in a great big beautiful garden.
William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch
I’ve been places. I’ve seen things. I’ve eaten meals that cost more than my first car and stood in front of art that makes you question everything you thought you knew about beauty.
None of it, and I mean none of it, comes close to watching Charlie tear ass through the garden like he’s being chased by something wonderful. That laugh, that pure, unfiltered joy when you’re gaining on him and he knows it and doesn’t care because the game is everything. The way he throws his whole body into running, no technique, no form, just go go go.
You spend your whole life chasing something, the girl, the shot, the moment, the perfect light, the thing that matters. And then your kid is running circles around a shed in the morning light and you realize: this is it. This was always it. The rest was just noise.
I chase him. He squeals. The light is golden. And for maybe thirty seconds, nothing else exists. No deadlines, no declining cities, no art diva bullshit. Just a kid who hasn’t learned yet that the world can be heavy, and a father trying to remember what that felt like.
That’s the whole game right there. Everything else is just killing time until our next run through the garden.