My friend slips her air pods in as her father talks to me. I seek the detachment she found on this coffee date more than I seek noise as I walk for an hour on chilled paths. Without sunglasses, a phone, some light clothes, and some overkill running shoes, I stride on task. Yet I am looking for the sound of a car that can come and run me off the road as I walk down the dirt where the prairie dogs have the same ears, yet to my steps. I giggle as they sneak back into their nest, I do not miss the audio comfort, but I do feel the same unease in my concern over awareness of passer byers. My mood is of pleasure as somehow my mind gives credit to the task of simply moving without the crutches of music in my ears. Plus, natural light hits my eyes unobstructed, on top of freeing myself from the radiation from my phone, a hippie lover of years past that ingrained this into my ideals. I fall into my body, and I am focusing on my movement but keep looking externally as the question for this project are asked about what I witness outside whilst beyond that, I feel I am meditating. Quickly that meditation breaks as I notice there is a woman running way up the road. I drop my eyes down and act as if I am so focused on the texture of the dirt as if it is what is propelling me forward. I cannot look at this woman as I do not want to be perceived as a creep as she goes past. “Hey,” I then must look; it’s a friend, another ex-athlete that has had many surgeries to keep her body together after overtraining for years for her passion. We check in on each other and if we are all in one piece. Whilst subtly acknowledging that our eating disorders and escapism from long past abuse are conquering what was once our profession that never let others see that deep. I linger on that envy of abs as I grow fat while she envies that I can still perform my sport while she lusts for simple movements. I take my mind back to place and observe the wind begging me to head back again.

I found joy in my discipline of being free of the phone, but I plugged in, put my shades and a hat on, and then to another journey. I go back to a song from months ago that helped me through some hard times and click to the acoustic Flowers by Miley Cyrus; I cried to it many times as I screamed my way to class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but a few months ago. Sure enough, it starts, and my mood goes back. I feel the hurt inside and grow sad though I had felt way past those painful moments. I listen to the album, and starting from the last acoustic song, it goes straight into the studio version at the beginning of the album, so I hear the same song with different tones. In the car, I yell a bit louder. On the streets, I walk quietly with my head down as drunk men in white cargo shorts, pastels, the smell of cheap beer, and expensive habits laugh on by. I could care less about walking in either place or finding myself on a map of my existence in this place. I am an insider on ability this town identifies with, yet I am the scum that lives above a garage in a studio with his mother until she leaves him at fifteen. I went to Tucson for the opposite of home, yet now I am finding place at my traditional home that I chose to leave yet lust to be able to afford to live in yet again. This map leaves me with dots on a huge map and myself in my head, not caring about my feet as Miley plays on, as I seek to understand what society, this bubble, and the future mean to me. This will let me transcend a place on a map.