Walking forces you to think, to look at the ground and to let your gaze wander over the material. With a slow pace, which is easily overtaken by the urgency of others, I realize that summer is already coming to an end. I didn’t say much about it, I left it to the clouds to wash the sky, the gardens to soothe the moods and my mind to get entangled in the fog.
Walking forces you to remain human and, if you manage to let your phone vibrate in your case, you finally don’t go faster than your shadow.
Time changes so little when we walk, the step beats the seconds, the centimeters, the thought scatters its psalmodious wanderings. And the morning becomes beauty with its light that already reminds us of death to come.
What I seem to be reborn when autumn comes as if summer were for me nothing more than a drought to drown in the modesty of the fatality of the languid season. Yes, the light changes, I come out of my den, make me the groundhog who never sees his shadows.
I’m having a hard time sleeping tonight. It rained in a storm today to chase away the heat, to silence the cicadas who, this summer, almost did not sing. Yesterday was the eclipse that did not put the Americans’ minds back in order. Today, a ghostwriter is dead. Yesterday, he was a comedian. And elsewhere, other deaths that won’t really make the headlines. Or so little, the time for other bewildered people to run into other victims.
There is also all this noise of the Internet, which knows neither spring nor winter, always in perpetual chaos, in equinox on absurdity. There are my dreams that always run away as soon as I try to water them with a conscience.
I walk, I keep saying I walk. I’m walking.