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Ogni movimento tende all’immobilità

No one should believe that just because everyone lives in the blood of those who created, and is something that goes back to the mists of time. So we're just the curve of a river that comes from afar and will not stop after us.

Now, for example, is easy to say the cars, and think it all started like this, at once. But the brother of his father had worked the land, and before him, the woman who had generated it had run off with a magician who still remembered all that had brought the country's first bike.

Sometimes we only finish work unfinished.
and begin work that others will end for us.

He said continuing to walk, though now a bit 'had ceased to understand where he was going. Taken from his involuntary had taken steps to turn around a block, because a prudent form of inertia, perhaps generated by the fog, had angled to reject, at some point, cross the street. So, without even realizing it, he turned left, following the shore of the buildings, and from there, continuing to turn left, it was as if he had found his lane, a shelter for his words. When they finished the first round, last found himself in front of a window that had already seen, and never would have expected to review in his life. He was amazed.

They walked without thinking, as do those who are lost, but the city had brought them there, like a sheepdog. While his father was pulling right, continuing to recite the rosary of blood and earth, he, later, seeking to understand what, exactly, had happened, and why he had such a trifle upset.

Maybe it was the fog, or the stories of his father, but he was to think that if they continued it for hours on end would disappear. They would be swallowed by their footsteps. Why walking is usually the sum of the steps, but what they were two facendo, lì, era sottrarli, in un calcolo esatto che periodicamente riportava a zero.

Pensò alla purezza, indiscutibile, di quel cammino alla rovescia. E per la prima volta, seppur in modo confuso, intuì che ogni movimento tende all’immobilità, e che bello è solo l’andare che conduce a se stesso.

da Questa storia – Alessandro Baricco