I like to walk. I like to walk quickly. I don't like to walk slowly. I don't like to go for a walk, to wander around.

I don't like to walk slowly, because I can't. It means I can, I am able to walk slowly, even very slowly, but my back starts aching almost at once and soon this ache is almost unbearable. Anyway, I always have been walking quickly, although not always my back have been aching. Maybe my body knew it much earlier than myself, since very beginning, and that is why it didn't want to walk fast. And it did everything to make me dislike slow walking. Thus I have never used to go for a walk, because a walk means going slow. Fast walk is not a walk – there is a contradiction between going fast and going for a walk… It's interesting, it would suggest that my body was independent of me. Either entirely, or to some extent. It made decisions and didn't inform me at all about them, nor consulted them with me. It manipulated me. Of course, I manipulated it, too. No doubt. I wonder whether my body new about this. If it didn't know, this would indicate I was not my body, and my body was not me. At least to some extent. To what extent – I wonder… What I'm writing here is really bizarre, because seems absolutely contradictory with the profound and thorough unity one feels with one's body. However such separation could be sometimes useful and desired. For example, when something happened to the body, then this would happen only to my body, not to myself – if the body got bruised, it would be bruised, not me…

Yet not only this invisible, hidden deep inside me, bodily imperfection was responsible for my eagerness to walk fast. My walking has been teleological by nature. I have always been walking somewhere and for something, for some reason. I have never been wandering with no purpose, with no aim. Can one wander with no aim, no purpose? Those who like to wander around with no aim, aim at aimlessness, aim to reach no aim . . . . . . . And when they reach it, what they will do then? I could wander around quickly, but I didn't do that. Maybe it's a pity. Maybe I should. I have lost something, I haven't experienced anything… But I experienced something else instead, I haven't lost anything else. That's the way it is, and we shouldn't bother about it . . . . . . . . . Each time I cross a street, at crossings, on zebra crossing, I try to be the fastest. The traffic light turns to green and I start. I race. Usually I win, because most probably nobody races, so nobody knows this is a race. Sprint. There are no awards, no medals, no flags, no anthems. There is no frantic audience… Is this sport? Is this the essence of sport? . . . . . . . Then I don't race. I walk fast, but I'm not interested at all if I overtake somebody or somebody overtakes me.

Now, after so many years I keep walking fast, though not that fast. It's normal. It would be abnormal, but fascinating, if I could walk faster. If I walked faster and faster. If I could walk faster than if I rode a bike. Faster than if I went by train. If I could walk so fast nobody could notice me. I would vanish due to such speed. I would go too far. Much too far.