Grounded

I always look at the ground . . . whenever I walk. . . on the sidewalk I barely make the effort at looking straight ahead. Instead, I look at my path. . of where my feet are making contact . . with the pavement . . made to be stepped on. . . bounded to the earth that people don’t appreciate enough. . like the unwanted crust from a slice of pizza or a homemade sandwich, disregarded and not wanted. . . I look down to not engage contact with the walking bodies of strangers. . . from the street corners of conjoined houses, to the bustling system of train stations and around alleys for financial institutions. The ground will always be there. The only time I look up is when I see an architecture worthy of my attention. . . the complex engineering of constellations beyond the blueprints of hand-made skyscrapers. . . it doesn't take long before I fix my attention back . . down to the ground. I will forever look at it knowing that I will one day be buried in it.