Worn lumps and crevices for the waves to take hold
I stop at the top of the headland to take a breath
The wind seeming to come from the same low angle as the sun
Weighed down like a rock, each footstep becoming more like the ground
A line between rocks and wind
For some hours I am alone, I don’t see another soul
My foot connects with the ground through the sole of my boot. At the start my feet are fresh, comfortable. Slowly they begin to tire and muscles ache. Gravel and mud move underfoot, making the surface unstable. The terrain is an active agent. Matter is displaced, weather blows or washes it away, further erosion is enabled. My boots wear smooth, slowly losing their grip. The skin on my feet hardens and peels away. Even the hardest rock erodes eventually; it is a matter of time and repetitive processes. Matter does not disappear; it accumulates elsewhere. Land rises, folds, buckles. Slowly, the self feels more porous, exposed to the elements. The boundaries between self and landscape are less clear. Time becomes rhythmic with the cadence of walking, of breathing, the sound of waves a constant companion from the sea. Thoughts rise and fall away again. These are the traces left behind.
