The escalator rolls, and I as what feels like it's only passenger, rigidly take a step or two below. Inconveniently now, I wish I could just stop moving, to have a minute to gather myself, but the mechanics around me just wouldn't allow such a decidedly fickle impulse. At least it's justly fulfilling its duty. The final step from grinding irons to the maroon pasted cement has sealed my path, the inexorable turn of metal gears was only a step behind, but it may as well be distances away as it no longer matters, my mind has closed off all thoughts of return. With the aid of the chatter and footsteps closing upon me, my feet have unwittingly returned to its original pace to save the rest of the body from public humiliation. You just can't stop after dropping to the bottom of the well, like falling into the lowest depth of a manhole, the only way up is...well only as real as a stairway to heaven. Each step further into the subway station leaves a film of events that had only occurred a few hours earlier, as if one step at a time, a drop of memory leaked onto the ground. It can be conceived to be the literal and metaphorical action of a step, as strong as the thud that follows, is the resonance of its many accompanying emotions. Every step is invigorated with a scene of memory and its exact copy of the energy at that moment in time, leaving a vivid, vibrant sheen over the surface of the step. The sole of my first step captures the early-morning gathering filled with excitement of seeing familiar friends and the reeling movement of finishing a step provides the perfect motion of imprinting the shoe onto its cold grounded partner. The right foot now steps ahead of the left, leaving another imprint, its reflection shines with heartfelt laughter and joys of the zoo. Again, the left, this time it leaves a mark that captured the bonds of friendship and love between these individuals. Fueled by so many fluttering memories, a glimmering trail begins to form. ...However, the trail's light begins to diminish the further my foot diverges from its step. Unfortunately neither can what is only a shadow of the memory deviate far from the body and soul. The energy that animates it will irreversibly run out overtime, sometimes it may only be ephemeral. They will also begin to be overshone by the light of bigger and stronger feet, “small but tough” shoes, or simply superseding feelings attached to another's particular recollection. Perhaps by smear prints of oval-bellied shoes followed by dainty heel-points, by flat-shaped loafers, notoriously known for their clear cut, and furtive image, or by the stomps of colossal mountain boots, the king of footwear, oh, here comes a sneaker's craggy bottom precisely snuffing out half of an earlier step. By no means of any harm, it has coincidentally imparted a glimmer of the teenage boy's memories. Likewise so do all shoes that pass upon the station's floor, leaving luminous marks of what only the soul can retain. Imaginably, the subway's cold, hard floor has begun to be lit up with dozens of footsteps followed by their individual spark. One trail circles towards one direction, while another intersects it, just like the crossroads of urban cities. The once faceless pavilion, is now a sea of a thousand fading footprints, reminiscent of the many occurrences that goes on all in one day. Crowded and bustling may need to take on a new meaning, one less pair of feet would mean one less gleam in the eyes of those who are watching. My steps suddenly stop, I've reached my temporary station, awaiting the subway train to come into place, where I along with many others, step by step, will always and constantly shine its floors. Our walk will never be alone.
