We're all screwed

[This post should actually be dated many months ago]

Each step glistened in the light. All their tiny lines, their signs of a previous life as stones were almost unnoticeable under the shine. Each night the janitors dutifully cleaned the steps, one by one, as they moved along in their daily routine. Despite meticulous maintenance and their spotlessness, subtle details betray the steps' age and character. The edges and corners of the steps are not as sharp as they once were. The surface of the rock below is faded and blurred. Most telling of all is the subtle dip around the center of each step. Hundreds of feet each day wear them down. The change is unnoticeable day-by-day, year-by-year, but as the decades add up the use shows through.

The wear encapsulates stories before people even cared about the steps. If you ask, no one can tell you where--what quarry--they were brought in from, if anyone ever knew in the first place. They were placed in their spot, pristine and new, but immediately surrounded by the dust, noise and dirt of a building under construction. Their first wear came from those work boots, perpetually covered in the musty haze of construction, with thick soles to protect from loose nails, and hard leather for defense from dropped objects. The steps were cleaned up and polished to a spotless shine. They stood proud and new for the ribbon cuttings and for the polished leather shoes next to delicate heels that gingerly walked up and down them, pausing here and there to observe the newly dedicated building. Next came the wave of less-polished shoes and less-delicate heels. Each pair ascended and descended more rapidly than the previous shoes. There were a few floods of shoes each day, synchronized with the clock. Brown shoes and black shoes that rarely paused to give the building a moment. An occasional pair of shoes new to the steps may pause to find their way, or admire the architecture, or maybe some shoes paused near each other as their wearers exchanged brief words. Although no one paid much heed, the steps were restored to their shine each night.

With the rains, there came shoes squeaking on each step with cool water that bubbled out the sides. Some were embarrassed about the ruckus of the squeaks, but too much in a hurry for a class above. A subtle trail of mud and water recorded their passage and that of many others like them. With the start of a distant war, stiff combat boots passed up and down each step in preparation for a much more morbid destination. On sunny days, the calluses of bare feet lent the warmth they had acquired from the prickly grass that reached for the summer's sun.

Despite the rigorous cleaning of each step, the wear hinted at their history.

Today my worn running shoes walked up the stairs. They marked each step with a subtle squeak--loud enough for me to hear, but not loud enough for anyone else to notice. My feet had taken the route many times. I followed my own previous path, no different from that of many others before me. I had taken the path to file paperwork, to meet with professors, to discuss texts, to listen to ideas, to learn. Again, no different from that of many others. Today I had to think why I climbed each step, one at a time. I wanted answers, but I did not know the questions. As I climbed, I thought of the texts I had read and discussed. I had learned so much from them, but there was so much more that I could not grasp. I could feel countless ideas, embedded in subtle blotches of ink clutched onto by generations, slip through my grasp. I did not have the context or experience to stop it. I wanted someone to hold my hands, to keep the knowledge in them.

I reached the top of the steps and paused. I felt my pulse pound throughout my body and tried to relax my quick breathing. Light streamed onto me from the skylight above. The hallway before me looked newer than the rest of the building. It must have been converted from an attic to office space. It had a radiant white shine that gave the sensation of a place freed from time. I vainly tried not to disturb the quiet ambiance as I walked down the hallway. I reached the office and heard the sharp S's of words quietly spoken as they slipped through the door left ajar. The professor was talking with a student, one younger and fresher than myself.

I stood there and knew the answer. Not the one I hoped to find, but the one I needed to hear. I have been given the tools I need, and now it is time to use them. Each generation before me had their opportunity to leave a trace. The ripples of which are constantly around me. Now it is my turn to put my hands to the world.

I descended the steps, one-by-one. I walked to the heavy, wood door, pressed my hand against the metallic bar across it, and pushed. I was enveloped by bright gold that warmly descended upon me. Once my eyes adjusted to the sunny afternoon, I continued forward towards the trees in front of me.