Walking remains a key part of my mental health regime. After a week stuck in a small room at home on innumerable Zoom calls, I need the peace and quite of the changing ground under my feet, and some music in my ears. I don't need to go far – my immediate surroundings change constantly, and there's always little things to notice. Late last year, a building that seemed like it would never change (having remained the same for over a decade) was suddenly emptied of the detritus out front, and demolished:
I wasn't early enough to enjoy the morning fog, but what a crisp morning! I braved a street I once lived in (some memories are harder than others), and pushed further west into some streets I rarely visit anymore, full of the usual mix of terrifying mansion-like things amongst the preserved prior world.
There are tiny hints amongst the blankness – subtle things, not the wall-high scrawls – I appreciate the little notes.
Remnants of another milk bar that succumbed to the ravages of our times, though I struggle to remember the particular nature of this one.
Really, it's just nice to be out, seeing nothing in particular.
Musical accompaniment was something new (competely unheard) and something old (but not listened to for a long time):
Do I suddenly have more to say? Not in particular, but in the process of cleaning up lots of old things and old memories, I realised that I missed feeling part of a world of words. Like everyone, I fell into the world of short status updates and private messaging (the latter not so different to the 90s, except that this time we don't have a single app pulling all the chat protocols together). My ability to self-host never went away, but convenience trumped continuing to maintain my own software stack as my day job moved away from hands-on tech, and also as my life changed in various unexpected ways.
For various reasons, now feels like a time that I'm able to consider revisiting this world. I wonder how many old friends are still out there?
