The Music Of The People

Where are you going?
Who are you waiting for?
What are you waiting for?

There are very few who walk for the pleasure of stepping on the floor tiles, following the lines, or avoiding them. Most of them are programmed with an arrival and departure time; a route and a certain mission. That's why their steps are steady and determined, that's why they don't see what's around them... or maybe they do "see" but don't "observe". They all move fast, so fast. Always that fast, every day. Beneath their feet there are imaginary rails from which they can't be derailed from. Automatized. Remote-controlled. Cars have rails too. The eyes don't meet, not even cross their ways. The rails don't cross. The free steps are easy to distinguish, those who have no origin or destination, no departure or arrival time, no fixed stops or estimated travel-time. Just walk for the pleasure of walking, dreaming, living, writing. Walking not because of where are you going but because of the path you would walk through... and the floor tiles you would step on. Free time, Augusts, Julys allow some lucky (or smart) ones this great deed... travel through the sea of faces and lives to the Cathedral's Square where people sound like music, where there's no need of an mp3 player to mitigate the screeching of those people's rails that cover the city streets. The steps are tranquil and soft; glances, calm. There's no time and, at the same time, it flies... flies on backpackers, blue eyes, ice creams, pictures... a guitar. Floor tiles become a seat, a stage. Acoustics are perfect, incredibly perfect. A guitar takes you far away, to other places with their floor tiles, to other memories with their smiles, to other futures with their music. And there's nothing better than walking for the sake of walking. Make up a story with its characters, rails, floor tiles... and walk the city letting other observers and thinkers cross your way with their stories. Those stories are music, statues, paintings, smiles, pictures, floor tiles, words, glances... the murmur of the stories flows without rails, without origin or destination, without arrival or departure... it flies high and becomes the whisper of pens caressing the paper of inspiration, drawing the Sea, the silence, and the music of the people.