As I look down, I can see my feet are as callous and dry as always. Cracking. I've never looked at my feet this way. The same toes, the same oblong creased middle toes. My ancestors had these toes. Two-hundred thousand years ago my great grandfather to the billionth time stared at these same feet. Why are feet so interesting? They aren't magnetic, and they certainly aren't made of gold. Maybe it's just my uncanny interest in mundane things that gives them unwarranted character. Maybe it's because they can carry us so far yet we never really get anywhere at all. We walk our entire lives in circles and at the end of the day, we sit around staring at our feet, like one of Tolkien's Hobbits cozy in their little hole with their little fire place.
How many miles do you think I've walked in my lifetime? Enough to reach Mars? The moon and back? The North Pole? I read a book once that said humans are the only animals that willfully choose to run long distances. But in walking, we're all together, a giant biomass trekking across Earth's infinite treadmill, and if you can show me a plant that walks, I venture to think I'd like to inspect its feet too.
So what is a human's destination? From the time we are born, we are carried, crawl, walk, run, and eventually return to life's great walk. Is there even a destination? Does there have to be? Maybe walking, and breathing, and seeing, and experiencing is the destination and our feet are just tools to achieve these things. Maybe if I walked on my hands I would sit around thinking about them instead.