There’s a little shack down here by the river. No one lives in it, and I don’t know who owns it. It’s one of those forgotten pieces of property. Someone has a piece of paper about it somewhere, but who and where they are is anyone’s guess. Oh, I could go to the town office and find out, but I’m not interested in administrative records. I’m interested in people.
I’m interested in why somebody doesn’t care about this. It’s a wreck, to be sure, but it could be made livable again. Four seasons might be hard to deal with unless you’re really tough and don’t mind the cold, but three seasons could definitely work. I wonder why they don’t care anymore. It might be shabby, but you’d be hard pressed to find a prettier view or better fishing. Yet year after year, no one comes. That’s what I’m interested in. Not the deed. The motive.
Maybe it’s old age. Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe it’s exhaustion. But there’s a piece of paper somewhere that says this belongs to someone and no one else can come here. That must be a mighty strong piece of paper. Or perhaps we’re all just so well trained. Most of us are law-abiding citizens, so we dutifully pass on by. Once in a while, I sure would like to be a bandit, though.
But I’m not, so I’ll continue to sneak here and take pretty pictures of the place that no one cares about.