Wanderer

I like to wander. To walk for no other purpose than to walk, feeling the muscles of the legs stretch and contract, pulling bones and body along through space, and each step, hitting and pushing off the Earth, processing the texture and composition of the ground beneath my feet as it does so. I am a sensor, taking readings as I move along. The tiny points of pressure pushing up are little rocks. The grainy texture sliding against the bottoms of my shoes are little motes of dust and sand. The wet soil sinks with my weight. And better yet, is the feeling of the sun, warm against my face and skin, I register its life-giving force and I too give off warmth in response, "Yes, I am still a part of this universe also." And while my body writes and sends this message off in all directions where it dissipates and fades with distance and with time, it is still busy sensing.

Sensing, every minute change, as the air pressure rises and sinks, each strand of hair floating and waving, sending information via movement down to the roots where each push and pull is processed until I know, the direction of every breeze and gust of wind pushing past me on its way to become a part of other pressure systems, pushing and pulling across the Earth, directing oceans and carving mountains.

Light bounces off the objects all around me where my eyes process them into shapes and colors so that the world comes into existence in my minds eye. A world that extends in all directions, full of the unsensed, unprocessed, more data for me to collect so long as I am willing to push forward. A world that I process innately and automatically as my eyes reveal it, my findings stored away in memory.


But perhaps, most selfishly, its what all my findings confirm that makes me especially fond of wandering, the simple proof that I exist.