May 14, 2006

I am in the middle. Middle America. Middle child. The middle: inbetween two places. The mountains to the west, the plains to the east. I starve for autonomy, yet suffer from loneliness. But sometimes the middle is a good place.
There is a pub down the street from where I live. When it opened, I began frequenting it...often. The mountains. Then, realizing that I was developing a bit of an affinity for the suds (a road that I have traveled for years), I stopped going altogether. The plains.
But its warm out now. And we have bikes. And the pub has a porch. And happy hour. So we rode there. We rode, drank a pint or two, and shared great conversation. If that porch had ears...we would be in trouble. In moderation, we solved our problems. We talked about the women that we love and hate, the roof over our heads (or lack thereof). We talked about faith and morality. We exchanged truths. Over a pint or two.
In the middle, we became taller. Bigger. More humble. With less weight on our shoulders.