In the mornings, I walk through the park. Round and round I go like a toy car, orbiting the dewy and luscious oval of green. I like to walk beneath the trees, shading me with their magnificent arched arms, their hanging leaves provide comfort to me. I like to smell the roses, pink, purple, peach, and white, water droplets drip and drop from their delicate petals. I like to see the sunshine peer through the canopy of branches and leaves, kissing the awakening world beneath itself. I say hi to Raoul, the gatekeeper of this beautiful park garden, he smiles and knows everyones name who enters his kingdom. I like to see and hear the same three Persian women, dressed in different colored jogging suits each day, pace around the park, gossiping about old lady drama. They smell of Chanel no.5 perfume every time I pass by them.

When I am not walking in the park, I'm running. I run the same course I walk round and round, but I imagine of being elsewhere. I imagine running through the trails drawn in between woods and mountains in Colorado, or the snowy peaks of Mount Hood in Oregon. I imagine being elsewhere as I run in circles; my heart burns and my lungs ache for oxygen the longer my head is in the clouds, my legs cycling beneath me.

But when I am not walking or running at the park, I am sitting. I am sitting at the green metal bench next to the rose bush, watching people walking by, or watching a father play with his children, or watching the light from the sun setting sift among the lush green around me. I can feel my skin soaking it up, every last ray of it until it is cold and time to go home. When I am sitting, I am reading a book, and allowing everything around me to take place, as I drift off elsewhere into the Mountains of Everest or the vibrant, colorful San Juan Mountains. When I am done with my book, or simply done with my reading for the afternoon, I get up from my bench, and I finish my walk through the park.