I am Your Footpath.

I was walking in the park today while so many took naps and dreamed of civil war engagements, and it felt more like the sun was taking a walk on my head and on my shoulders. But I was still walking in the park, an old one that not alot of people go to and for good reason. It's in an inconvenient place. Out of the way on a weird 8-way intersection. I found myself in it, though, and as I walked about on the footpath I came across a section of pavement broken in half. And I wondered what monster, what strength could destroy such a chunk of concrete. Concrete is one of the toughest things made, hence the reason there were concrete bunkers in case of nuclear winter. It's a porous object, but one whose pours never completely fill up, allowing energy to be absorbed by it. Anyways, this nuclear bomb blocker of a substance was broken before me, and to the right of it was a tree, not a large one, but not a small, either. and Below the concrete and just to the other side of the tree was a root sneaking beneath the surface.

And then I figured it out: the root, the tree itself has destroyed this walkway. Inch by inch, year by year, tree ring by tree ring, it pushed on this block, and slowly and surely it decayed it and made it weak. And I found it kind of amazing that nature in its methodical way showed man what it thought of its way of walking around.

In other news, I started thinking about drawing a picture of myself and what it would look like. For some reason I am clinging to a rock, and the background has a lava-esque light to it, and I am limping forward, one knee down. I am much more muscular in the painting, my hair a tad bit longer and unkempt, but there is one defining factor I'd want to accentuate: My scars.

Great and many, long and small, sutured and open, faded and new. Gaps where Parts of me should be. Almost like a classic Greek statue, chipped and damaged, but with blood flowing through it, with pain and life and death and hurt and tears all stained on it. Because it's the scars that define us, that sharpen us, that make us who we are.

Like that mixed up, haphazard walkway I went down today. It would have never caught my eye unless the helpless tree would have grown in the only way it knows how, and the bystander broken laid over it. Our scars are not too different, making us stand out from the run of the mill pieces of sidewalk.