movement

A dreich day the day. This was taken waiting for a friend, watching Byres Road hurry past in the rain. This lass came up to the lights, all in black. I noticed her movement because of her walking aid. She was perfectly coordinated: click-step, click-step. I felt a bit sorry for her there in the rain, clickety stepping through puddles and broken pavement.
Then I caught myself. What was this instinct to feel sorrier for her than some of the poor souls that walked by me? Was it just because they had no artificial aid to signal something was wrong? Did the lass need, or particularly look for my sympathy?
She almost certainly didn't and was doing just fine. Her sore leg was evidently on the mend. It was just a bit more of a struggle than usual to navigate the punters up Byres Road. I didn't bat an eyelid of sympathy for the few drug addled with their hurried walk to wherever they were headed.
I think it was the apparent struggle I responded to. The walking aid, the black garb, the dimpled puddle. It seemed more difficult for her. But so what? On reflection I recognised that life is only struggle. Only movement in time. There is no place to finally arrive at and stop. Some days are a skoosh. Others are clickety-step. Others still boulder heavy weights to shoulder. But just movement nevertheless.
When we sense that we stop moving, that life seems static, then the rust sets in. The day becomes corrosive. Everything decaying. Maybe like those poor souls walking down the street to the insistent pull of their habit. Their feet move but they are utterly stuck in the amber of addiction. Those are where my sympathies should have lied. Not with this lass. She was moving, clickety-step.

Onwards.