Golden sand slipping between fingers and toes, sculpted to the last micrometer of repose. Warm and loose. Wet and cohesive. Sifting silently, shifting ceaselessly.

But that’s not what I want to write about. I want to write about walking. Ceaselessly. With determination. Without proper punctuation. With toes spread wide feeling sublime texture of place and the burn of sub-rounded and sunsoaked. Microclimates of texture slipping under foot. The madness of passing. Of time. A fugue state. A passing fantasy that is entirely too real and too supernatural to be fictional at all. Forgotten, not forgiven. Immediate and decisively indifferent. I could tremble, or shout, or move through the four as one: anger, sadness, fear, and happiness. Instead i’ll pause and sit silently. Trembling. Saltating or squishing in the container of self.

But that’s not what I want to write about. I want to write about walking. Ceaselessly. In the golden light, in the golden sand, with bare feet slipping in microdunes made by the footsteps of others. The foot shape, size, and gait never quite match up. Instead they are a metaphor for every human interaction past, present, and future. It’s easier to walk through sand if you lean forward into it. Your toes press forward and down leaving a large depression that makes walking back in your footsteps easier. Providing you’re returning the way you came. I don’t encourage that. Forge a new path whenever and where ever possible, except if you’re tired, hungry, in a hurry or in sand. Then it is about the economics of the transaction of transambulating. It’s simply more economical to return in your own footsteps then to try to fit in the footsteps of others. It never quite feels right. And so it goes, ceaselessly.

But that’s not what I want to write about.