one floor

The golden varnish tenaciously binds with the hardwood in areas of low traffic, with wear marks composing the minority of the surface area in these remote corners and edges ofthe floor. Here the boards can easily be distinguished from their neighbors. In the remainder of the building, where traffic over the years has been frequent, the boards of the floor fade into one another, virtually imperceptibly. The varnish on these sections has turned into dust as the result of gentle sanding from the likes of greasers donning oily-soled engineer’s boots as they swagger confidently across the floor. Delicate feet wrapped in the worn leather of birckenstocks have graced the floor with the shuffling feet of earthy, poetic blondes comfortably inside. Business men have absently laid steps with their dress shoes across as their red-faced-wrapped minds circulate the methodology of manipulation as visions of the dollar flash in their eyes. Many have traveled this floor, leaving their mark, however minute. Some would be viewed as positive, some negative. Lovers have met here, friends have become enemies here, skinny have become obese as there over-indulgence on lattes has taken-hold of their bodies. Musicians have composed their tunes. Dancers have envisioned their performances. Lonely have become lost. Lost have become found. So many have traveled here, all leaving their mark.

This worn floor, that was once shiny, new and clearly defined has become worn through the years. Now the boundaries of the boards are questionable, fused with residue and wear, more comfortable with being a whole. Worn spots, clean spots, dirty segments, moaning areas, cracking boards all create the whole. One day, this floor will be torn from where it has lain all these years. Each end of the spectrum, and all of the analog stages in between hold a definitive beauty.

~ by oneopenbook on November 29, 2008.