She’s not in a hurry, she obviously doesn’t even have a destination, she just walks. Walking is so much part of her day. To work, back from work. To the train station, back from the train station. To the supermarket, back from the supermarket. Her shoes seem worn, the blue DC sign is still recognizable on the back of each heel, but the keen eye can see that the two letters are floating on the black background, they are not grounded anymore. She walks with the carelessness of somebody who has her mind in the clouds. No wonder she crosses the street even if the red lights are blinking; doubtful she even sees the flashing of the menacing colour. She walks past the park, past the stores, past the restaurants, even past the icecream trailer. What girl is that who is not craving for icecream on a cherry-scented spring’s evening? She walks.
But her walking is not dead, her mind is not sleeping, her fear of monsters prevents that. Her eyes are not fixed. Not on the dark grey pavement through the cracks of which raw green grass makes its way and not ahead, on the line of a horizon tainted with buildings and concrete. Her eyes are moving, searching and scanning… for what? Maybe traces of life in the eyes of the few passers by. Maybe hints of shape and colour in the live mechanics of the urban architecture. Her head is moving continously from one side to the other, then up and then askew, like following the flight of an invisible insect. Could be a dragonfly, the evening barely started to unfold. Or could also be that she’s reading the discount advertisments from show-windows.
She’s always alone when she’s walking. Sometimes, through the white headphones of her iPod, sounds are flowing in her brain. Who knows if it’s an old audiobook or an album just released last Friday. And sometimes the blue smoke of a cigarette steals her from this world. Who knows if she ever comes back the same. But only ever so often is somebody else walking at her side. Wanted or unwanted, but something in her polite smile and educated questions can have a curious third party make a more or less wild guess.
This time her road takes her under a railway. Somebody walking behind her could easily notice that her steps took on a note of uncertainty. A futile fear, kept on a leash by rules and regulations imposed by the government when railways are built. Especially suspended railways. Especially suspended railways in urban areas. This time the dragonfly lost its way and there are no passers by. Her eyes are fixated on the ground as the air remains pure of breath. That somebody walking behind her could imagine she hates suspended railways, maybe even suspended briges. Or just walking under them? Throughts and questions remain hanging in the cherry-scended spring air. She arrived home. Her home.