walking

Walking. A cacophony of light and the city's empty noises create an atmosphere of no consequence. Here, I can think. Imagine. Leave, because everything is mechanical, and nothing requires me in it. This walking requires nothing but two feet following each other into the light and shadow of another city street. Pools of lamplight, and then tree-shadows, and people shadows, and nothing substantial or real or mine. My feet follow the pattern in the footpath, as do, unconsciously, everyone else's. Adult hopscotch. A shop with pale mannequins like frozen ghosts. The fair ideal.
I go on walking, and the darkness watches me with a surly expression from the top of a tree, where it has been imprisoned. There is no place for it in the city anymore, not even at night.
On, till a familiar gate in a familiar wall, and then I'm home.