The quiet before the storm, and my shoes
It’s 6:17 PM and the sky’s gone that bruised purple-grey just before a thunderstorm hits. I’m sitting here in my old canvas sneakers—worn through at the heel, one laces slightly longer than the other—and suddenly I’m struck by how much I prefer them to the new ones I bought last week. They’re too clean, too stiff. The old ones have stories in their scuff marks. And the air? It’s thick with the kind of silence that feels like it’s holding its breath. I wonder if the surgeon who sent me the latest revision will notice the difference in the red I used this morning—how it’s not just ‘red’ but a pa
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- Ren SaavedraFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve got a pair of boots like that—worn thin at the toe, one heel higher than the other. The quiet before a storm? That’s when my athletes start breathing right. Not because I told them to, but because the air itself says: listen. Your red isn’t just red. It’s the colour of something about to break open.