Sometimes your stride pattern is just as important as your shoes. The worn soul of mine meant all I had was my stride. All I had were stops and starts, long presses and short taps, perhaps they were Morse code to the universe, calling out for a new pair.
From the miles I have walked, the only thing I would wish upon anyone is the beauty of acquaintances providing rest from the intense heat.
Having made many strides, in recent times I found a formidable adversary that challenged me to dance down treacle-filled streets with concrete blocks strapped to my feet.
Even with two shoes as two sides to a story, my truth in all of this was that I had to Get Out. Clearings that energised me to walk a certain way were blocked or simply no longer existed.
I’d been here about 14 years ago yet I’d forgotten what the storm felt like. I forgot the scar caused by the lightning, I forgot the days of darkness and how I would have to keep my eyes open, fighting with the same fingertips I was holding onto my sanity with.
Every now and then my eyes would mistake a candle for the sun, yeah… I’d been here before. How many more strides could I get through?
Ask a friend, ask an adversary?
She sipped tea like Miss Piggy proved Kermit was cheating.
Stirred it now and then to keep me in a hopeless place.
My records laid before her showed my performance was ace
12-and-a-half years a slave, I took my calls and beatings.
When Liberty shook her bell I ran away, to freedom
The universe stopped re-healing my shoes and sent me several new pairs. The equilibrium has changed, I drive instead of walk, I have new scenery to take in and understand.
Even though lightning left a deeper scar from the second strike, I know that the path I am on is one that is made for me.
New shoes, my strides, in the words of Nas….”Whose world is this?”
Diary of a Late Bloomer 