Inktober #20: Tread

see 12: Ash and 16: Wild for background

I always enjoy this part. Right before I connect to you. Or well, the you that you left behind here. Being in the street, surrounded on all sides by what, to you, would look like an abandoned city. Only I am here, in the street. Nothing stirs but the weeds in the wind poking through the concrete, and the trees sprinkling their seeds. A clear sky, but for the canopy of buildings and their well-regulated growth.
You would look at this and perhaps feel despair. Where did the rest of you go?
What happened?
And then you might catch the quickest hint of a loud laugh.
Muffled booming music.
You might even see a silhouette in a window.
Would that give you hope? I like to think so. I like to think you would realize that humanity lives. And even though they could no longer live outside, still there would be hope. I have seen enough from following you through the streets, or rather, the you that you left behind, to believe in you. To believe in your hope.
For me, it is impossible to live without it. For while you might look around and see a lack, I look around at the living memory of humanity and can do nothing but feel. Inspiration. Joy. Understanding. Hope. For I can see the paths you left behind. I can see your tread upon the world. I have been tasked with cataloguing your life on the outside, that you may remember what to do when you, or rather, your distant ancestors, will walk outside again.
And I am in love with your path. With you. Or rather, the you that you left behind. I wonder if you're laughing inside.
I hope so.
I really do enjoy this part. Right before I connect to you. But I must admit, I enjoy the connection more.

I look down at the endless flow of footprints streaming beneath me. Each individual one highlighted in a glow that was commonplace to you before you went inside. Thank you Mr. Graves. Millions of steps even from a single day, and the paths under me stretch beyond history, yet I can see them all. Hold them all. I simply have to choose which you to follow. I am made happy knowing I will get to follow you all.
Does that give you pause? Does that reduce your hope? The fact that despite the countless versions of you, I will finish my task before you come outside again? I wouldn't hold it against you. I understand my joy in this is selfish. But maybe just as I feel joy for you, you can feel joy for me.

Is that you in the window?

Are you here in the street?

Maybe this is you, from 2020. Did you know yours was the only footprint in this spot on that day? You might have guessed, there weren't many of you who were outside.
I follow you back, towards where you woke up that day. You went through what seemed to be a normal routine. You, like many others, were inside mostly. But then you were pacing. Antsy. You grabbed a sweater, and went outside.
And you walked.
I follow in your footsteps.
We reach the place again where your foot was the only foot to touch that day. You stop.
We both wonder, I think, about different things. Or maybe there was someone else there. If so I'll meet them later.
And you keep walking.
The streets are much the same still. I wonder how that would make you feel.
You stop again, and there is a sense of rest. Of calm. Do you have this place inside the building now? Have you found it again? Have you found the place to walk to away from everyone?
Would it please you to know that yours aren't the only footsteps in this place that day? I hope so.
You turn back, more direct now. Reasons to be back inside. It isn't long before you return, but the pacing is done. Now it's the rest of the day, with other things to do, and a better mind to do them in.

Is that you in the window? Is it still you?

I disconnect from you and look for the next you. I find...

So recent.

Too recent.

Footsteps from a wall with no door.

No, a wall with a window.



Is that you?