On some of the quietest streets of the neighborhood this morning, I ambled down the spring melody lanes that I can no longer escape. Was it a particularly slow morning as part of an Easter weekend hangover? No cars, no people, no runners, no dog-walkers, no nothing. But I could not hear my own footsteps.

You see, at night, walking these streets, the silence gives way to the impertinence of my own feet. It doesnt matter either, if i’m wearing boots or sneakers, and it doesn’t matter if it’s wet or dry. The distinct echo of my feet on the pavement bounces off the brick walls all around me. Not a soul around, except all these replications of my own tired self.

I’m wondering this morning, now, if the echoing footsteps are imaginary. Why would they be so prominent at night and nonexistent in the day? It doesn’t make sense.

Or they may not be imaginary, per se, but merely the residue of a night or a week that has been lived. They are the voices of the friends around the table that was just cleared, or the heartbeat of the anxious thought that will keep me awake for a few hours yet. And therefore, a Monday morning is a clean slate. On this day we start all over. We see what we are seeing but we do not hear the rest.

Pschologically speaking, it does a person much good to believe that they have a new sheet of paper on which to scribble. No matter that this explanation leaves a little too much wiggle room for the literal translation, because if any of us were actually hearing voices then I would say it’s time to stop and think about that in a different manner. But then again, we are actually hearing voices. And calling them footsteps.