Walking

I need to walk; walking is what I need to do.

So I am walking there, not catching a ride.

Walking is what I need to do because I need to catch the sun; I need those rays to warm my bones because they have become far too cold and brittle.

If I don’t walk, I won’t catch this sun and I’m afraid I will crumble into the very dust I am trying to walk on. 

I need to walk; walking is what I need to do.

So I am walking there, not catching a ride.

I have grown stiff and numb, passive in an active environment.  Walking will warm my muscles, so that every sinew sparks with heat, so that I can ignite a fire. 

If I don’t walk, my fire will not blaze; I will not emanate light and warmth, but sit cool and rigid, becoming an object that is affected.

I need to walk; walking is what I need to do.

So I am walking there, not catching a ride.

I need to feel my feet tap the pavement, each piece of gravel pressing itself into my foot.  I need to hear the rhythm of my steps to move my brain and awaken my mind.

If I don’t walk, my mind will remain stale, holding on to every sight or sound, letting them sit and  ferment until my brain is inebriated simply by being.

I need to walk; walking is what I need to do.

So I am walking there, not catching a ride.

I need my pores to open wide and release the things they've been holding on to, to feel sweat trickle down my face, its salinity reminding me of my thirst.

If I don't walk, my soul will not breathe, it will remain trapped by burdens, likely to succumb to the growing weight.

I need to walk; walking is what I need to do.

So I am walking there, not catching a ride, so that I can feel alive again.