Walking does things to me. The repetitive, low-effort motion of my legs is both distraction and absorption. It allows a kind of absent presence. It’s not from nowhere that a common piece of writing advice is to take long walks when stuck. Walking is like a continuous, full-body stretch. It’s such a pleasurable state that I could almost get addicted to it. Addicted to walking. Imagine that. It’s not about sightseeing. Not about the destination, nor even about the journey, really. More about the means of transportation itself. Think of someone riding trains just to experience them. Just to force themselves into that state of absent presence: all but gone from the world, yet fully in and with the train car. If, with them in that state, the train were to never stop or, conversely, if it would stop forever and take them with it, would they find it so bad? When it comes to favoured ways to go, I’d like to eat myself to death. Failing that, though, I would gladly walk myself to my demise. I’d walk until flat feet made knees collapse, ears start to ring, eyes sting, shoes break apart and peel away from blistered feet, lungs cramp in protest, fists close, teeth clench, nose bleed. I bet I’d never even notice any of it. My body would decay, but my mind would be free.
From the archives:
My Belly Wants To Kill Me. Should I Thank It? - Obsessive eating, living well, and dying a good death.
On Vastness - A little (cosmic) antidote to worry.