Reluctant to Replace Shoes

Playful echoes of laughter are heard in the distance. The same rabbit crosses the path, scurrying off into the brush. But the girl with the book open on her lap is not there. I take each step slowly. Forcefully. I enter my building, and the heavy door thuds behind me. I climb the stairs and each step echoes. I look down to my worn shoes–a hole in the toe, frayed thread. The forty dollars my mother gave me to buy new shoes is still in my wallet. But these shoes have carried me through so much, and I’m some what reluctant to replace them. Call it busyness, call in laziness. My darkened room is quiet. Nothing but the hum of the computer, and my roommate rolling over in his sleep. I feel so purposeless. And yet so purposeful. Somehow that sounds poetic.

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