Their feet hit the floor like horses' hooves, and they move as quickly as horses do. Clack, clack, clack. Even their eyes were hurrying, jolting around all over the place, matching the movement of their legs as they passed each other. Left, right, left, right. But even a horse's eyes stays looking straight as it hurries along its path....
The path is set in beautiful tones by the green grass, the light blue sky, and the grey concrete, outlined by a path in which the tapping sounds keep in time. The concrete has only one tone: the brown, muddy footprints that point in many directions. I can feel the nice breeze touch my face. It whistles flute-like melodies that try to counter the rhythmic “clack, clack, clack,” but the wind is drowned out by the numbers. The repetition of the noise doesn't fade, but persists louder and louder as it turns itself into new directions. I wonder: how can they move in so many directions, yet still agree on a similar rhythm?
The rhythm is not in solitude. The movements they make, when they gently or violently cut through the wind with their hands, when they move their head up and down when listening to others speak. It is like an intricate and detailed choreography. What suave! What grace and simplicity! Their movements - of their differing legs, of their dangling arms, of their bobbing heads - have a seemingly planned syncopation, which would entertain a most attentive and appreciative audience.
Nothing is more graceful than when they eat. They are like deer, before they realize they are being watched. Originally, eating was sedentary; it was natural, perhaps even instinctual, to sit down and observe one's food, pick up the knife and fork, and give oneself the time and freedom to subdue a meal. But how economically and rationally they are able to avoid this instinctual act! And as they do so, they do so modestly.
“Yeah, I know, Laura, I didn't get to eat this morning. This here is my breakfast,” one girl said to her friend, as she quickly ate her snack, waiting to take a gulp of a cold drink.
And in their mobility, they speak on their mobile phones. Small, delicate, and indispensable, they seem to carry it like a special doll. With what discipline they must train their body in order walk and speak at the same time! And what wit they employed when they converted their stationary house phones to mobile cellular phones
“I'm just walking to class...Oh, you too? Yeah, mine is at 12:20. Anyways, what are you doing tonight?” one girl says, as she hurries along the wet, concrete path.
It seems that everyone can walk while doing various pleasurable activities, from lifting weights to exercising. Even listening to music. Here comes an array of bobbing heads, humming of melodies, and lips' moving to the lyrics of a certain song - and all these things as they are walking, as they move their legs in rhythm. Left, right, left, right. Indeed, their rhythmic walking becomes almost instinctual.
I am reminded of a scene I once saw when I was a boy, about the age of nine or ten. I was walking to school when I saw a small anthill: I saw the countless ants, all carrying food and going in and out of different holes of the small mound. What I was truly surprised to see was that not for one moment did I see any of the ant workers stop moving. They put true definition to a mobile society. Quite reminiscent of Antony and Cleopatra:
“Celerity is never more admired
Than by the negligent.”
But these quickly footed individuals, similar to a mad crowd, rushing with some singular motive (though at different speeds, so there is no correspondence between them), must not be negligent: their eyes jolt like lightning flashes all around the area. Lying across from me is an old bench - there since 1900 - waiting for the company of some exhausted fellow, but only to be left in solitude again. But worry you not, dear bench, for thy company will come soon - but he shall leave you soon enough, and another come like him.
He says aloud, “Yes, but never will I reach an end, a company whom I may find a friend.”
The calamity of the foot steps creates a catchy rhythm: clack, clack, clack. It is one which I will imitate as I must put away my pen, close my notebook, and walk to class.
