Invisible

If I were to paint the soles of my shoes, and you were to become a bird and fly above me, what picture would the footsteps of my life paint for you? Would they form a word? And if they did, what would that word be? Love. Joy. Loss. Confusion. Why? Help. Or maybe numbers. All the telephone numbers I called, all the addresses I visited, all the numbers in my calculator, then also the number of tears I cried, and the number of laughs I laughed, the number of times I swung my club and missed the ball, the number of breaths, the number of heartbeats, and so on until all my life was tallied up and quantified. 

Or maybe there’d be no pattern at all. 

And what about when the paint was gone?

I’d just fade away, I guess. Or become invisible.

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