I put on a pair of brand new sneakers,
meticulously tying the laces.
They’re plain white, and they feel light as air.
They’re a little big, but I tie them tight so they won’t slip off.
Walking feels strange at first.
The shoes seem to pull my feet forward;
but I don’t mind.
In them, I will be as fast as the wind.
Nothing will be able to stop me.
I slip on my sneakers
in the same fluid motion I’ve used every day.
They’re no longer as big,
and I don’t tie them as tightly.
I can walk more easily now.
The soles are dirty from walking around,
but the top is still as white as day one.
This time, the shoes drag me into uncharted territory.
I don’t know where I am,
so I let them guide me.
I wear them everyday.
As everything around me changes,
I make sure my shoes stay the same.
I reluctantly put on my sneakers.
It feels like I’ve been walking forever.
The once-white shoes are now a bleak gray.
The soles have been completely rubbed away.
I’ve replaced them with soles of lead.
Everything around me moves in slow motion.
The laces hang untied, tripping me at every opportunity.
The shoes weigh me down, trying to keep me in place.
This time, it is me dragging them along.
I cram my feet into my sneakers.
They squeeze in around my foot.
Wherever I walk, they follow, clinging onto me.
I take the laces out, no longer needing them tied.
The lead soles are hardly noticeable.
I’ve been hearing about newer, bigger shoes
that lead you to newer, bigger places.
I’m interested... but my shoes are comfortable and familiar.
So each day,
I stuff my feet into the same old sneakers,
still waiting for the moment when I can take them off for good.
On the ground, my feet are bare.
They sit patiently,
with nowhere to go and no shoes to take them,
waiting to see what I do next.
The bare ground hurts to walk on.
Old shoes in hand, I make up my mind;
I walk into a shoe store.