I like to walk barefoot. Through life, thoughts, and through dreams. To feel the transiency of dust scattered on the road and to remember that life goes by with every step I take, and that I go through life and life recognizes me. It waves at me and says: “You again. You are hungry for feelings and love”. I take it in my arms and enjoy its touch while I am barefoot. Like a rain. Like a storm. Its touch awakens me from my numbness. Walking barefoot, sometimes I hurt myself and bleed, and it’s like I hear my mother’s voice whispering to me: “See if you’re walking barefoot? I told you to put on shoes!” And me, the child, know that I can get away with it. That the game goes on. That it can only be felt while I am bare feet. With the soles stepping in the wind. The game cannot be stopped even by the darkness of the night; at night I play with shadows, sinking into silence.
On my barefoot way through life I meet barefoot people like myself. Some of them wear shoes a few sizes bigger, letting life fill them all. My shoes fit me wonderfully, but I can’t feel them, I can only feel my bare step, beating the cadence of my own heart. I shudder at its hot struggle, awakening passions in me. I know, being a passionate person, I don’t really have a sense of measure in love, but that’s who I am and I love myself this way. With my barefoot step roaming the world, sharing my love with no one. Only with the wind blowing through my locks, bringing with it the smell of distance.
Once, in my barefoot walks, I met a barefoot man like myself. Dressed in patchwork clothes, wearing a resigned smile on his lips. An acquaintance he met told him that tomorrow would be better. “Who knows what tomorrow holds?” He asked rhetorically, chewing on a bitter delusion.
Life just needs to be felt. Stepping barefoot, measuring the immensity of the world. Just felt. That’s it. Without wondering anything. To feel it and touch it ephemerally, with your steps treading on the present moment.
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