I walked. Not really out of will, nor out of faith, nor even out of need. I walked because my legs seemed to remember in my place, because my body, emptied of meaning, kept imitating the motion, chaining steps like a worn-out mechanism incapable of admitting it was broken.
I no longer knew if it was me moving forward… or if it was the world, slowly, sluggishly, dragging me ahead, pushing me from beneath, as if it refused to let me collapse completely. My feet didn't really touch the ground — they brushed it, slid over it, barely grazed it, carried by a troubled, foreign inertia, almost clammy.
And in this movement without purpose, without direction, without name, I vaguely felt that something was moving me — not a force, not an order — but a gentle and sinister will, as if this very world had decided to take me elsewhere, in my place.
