liek, shoes

My shoes are gashed. Looking like someone slashed across the bottom with a boxcutter, it’s unfit for use. It’s unfit for construction work; nails find their way in. It’s unfit for rain; I’m soaked to my toes.
My mom tells me to buy new shoes. I don’t understand why but she’s been bugging me about it. I’ve even been bribed; I’m being paid to buy the shoes I need to wear.
But I think all the shoes need is new insoles. Duct tape wrapped around the bottom maybe, new laces would be overkill. They’re perfectly good shoes and I can’t bear to waste things I’ve had since high school. I can’t throw them away; I’ll never again wear shoes bought in adolescence.

Innocence, naivety, foolishness, hope. My shoes walked the halls of the louvre, d’orsey, verseille, the flavian, pisan stairs. But now I could care less. The experiences I will have will never compare with the experiences I’ve had already. And it’s not like the planes have all exploded, boats still sail the seas. But my shoes have been gashed and soon they’ll be thrown away.

I’m afraid, deathly afraid. I fear death, of losing all and becoming the isolation . I fear the open seas, of pushing off shores and swimming into the deep. Somewhere out there is me, burnt out, pulling weeds and not knowing why. Why I cared so much to buy a house in the suburbs. Living the dream lined up in a row. Somewhere out there I’m drowning, forgetting the sense of wonder and excitement.

Remember when we had dreams?
Sometime, in between, wings rejected sole.