How often are our footsteps the only thing we hear?
I’d venture to say it’s a rarity, living and working in the city, which is such a shame as the world beneath us is so large yet we seldom pay attention to it – even when it speaks to us, through our strides. Like raindrops on a tin roof, each step a whisper to our past and an accumulation to our future.
Our stories in the gravel, foot by foot a narrative of where we have come from and where we all are certain to end up. I like to think of it in that way, like there is someone or something watching us from below, tracing our souls, monitoring our paths, warning us to mind the gap. Sure, it’s a touch whimsical or maybe even a little bit morbid. Truth is, sometimes I wish I could listen to my footsteps knowing that there is someone else out there that wants nothing but to strain their ears to tickle my toes.