When I was growing up, I watched Western movies incessantly. When playing together, my siblings and I, if I wasn’t allowed to be John Wayne, I refused to play. I was always John Wayne.
Now I’m grown up, and still I think about the cowboy. Not the real ones, you understand, not those cowboys in Colorado or Texas, or the Pampas of Argentina, not those actually herding cattle on a ranch. For me, it’s the figure in my gut, the man that I absorbed off the silver screen.
A strong, silent man, who walks tall and proud. A solitary rider, unafraid to cross the frontier, adventuring, pioneering as he traverses the wilderness. Riding for a course, saving the world. He exudes that magnetic quality, that real embodiment of character.
Each day, the setting sun finds me looking outwards, heart restless, scanning the horizon for a lone figure on a horse riding homewards. Squinting I peer into the fading light, never quite sure – am I looking for him, or for me?