Wrong shoes

It is not the first time that I wear the wrong shoes on the right path. Whether it is a matter of wishful thinking or lack of strategy remains unclear. The pain in my bones resides and oh, I do wish it would dissolve in the ebb and flow’s foam visions are made of already. For instance, I do dream of the path adjusting to my shoes, which might be the case at the end of this week: I am taking the train to meet artivists who got in touch to get to know my written language with no other expectation than getting my view on their doing; it does seem like a clean, clear proposal to collaborate with no hidden egocentric agendas. I crave those at this open, abandoned field with narrow, sick corners. The other side of the river for some days it is then, maybe I’ll be coming back a little more wary this time.

Wearing my feet bare in an empty footbridge if I have to, just not conceding on cheap platforms hurting my spine anymore.