I have the feet of a traveller, a pilgrim. Covered as they are in blisters, sores and dirty. A permanent ‘X’ embellishing them even when they are bare, a mark of the time spent in my sandals on dusty roads. Each weary step takes me forwards, but not closer as I am not going to anything.
I am approaching a walled hill town and a thought strikes me as I see it tower up ahead. Right now could be any time. The last half millennia has hardly left any trace here. The walls are the same, the olive groves though which I walk are the same. The same leather soles have beaten this path, travellers’ backs just as aching, their bellies just as empty. And the joy upon seeing this haven of rest is still the same.
From where I am standing you could choose your own time and it would have seemed just as accurate. The blue sky betrayed nothing, the sandy walls revealed nothing either, the browning grass told tales only of a summer of drought.
As I had indulged in these thought of time travel I had stopped but as soon as I realise this I start to move again. Staying stationary for too long will only make my blisters hurt all the more when I resume my walk. Not so much a walk any longer as a stumbling procession.
