Footsteps

I’ve always loved the sound of footsteps. My own footsteps, to be exact. Not that I don’t like other people’s; they just don’t mean the same to me.

I was in one of those pretentious moods that makes you over-think everything as I walked home from the bus stop this evening and I discovered that I love the sound of my own footsteps because it’s proof of my existence. It’s the sound of your body touching the earth – it says ‘I’m here and I’m real and I’m part of this world.’ I think that’s why people like making footprints, too – in the snow or the sand. It’s your imprint left on the surface of the world.

Which is important because we all feel lost from time to time.

And I guess that’s also why people blog.

That and to share – to reach out in the hope that someone will understand, will have experienced the same thing or thought about it in the same way. Or perhaps they hadn’t but now that you’ve said it, it makes sense to them.

Here’s hoping.

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