No matter how much we tell ourselves otherwise, even the most spontaneous fall into routines. We go to the places in which we lose the tension in our shoulder, grab the moments when we truly breathe. Before we know it, these glimpses of comfort turn into a routine, a colour shade we paint our footsteps in.

For me that colour was green. Green like the prickly grass under my palms. Green like the emerald that hangs from my neck, a gift from my father. Green like the cover of my school issued notebooks, its margins filled with more doodles than math.

So life went on, my plain sneakers painted green footsteps that created my trail. As time passed my feet grew and the sneakers that comforted me, hurt. The prickly grass felt razor sharp. The emerald weighed heavy and sat dead. Drawing became a drag and slowly the margins emptied out.

I was desperately searching for another moment to live in and it just so happened to come in as a curly haired dork. Her brand name flip flops peppering pristine white steps behind her. White as the snow we doused in syrup in the hot summer months. White as the rotating beam of the nearby light house. White as the paper she scribed stupid thoughts onto.

For the first time in a while I traded my sneakers out. I roamed bare foot and no longer searching for my little moments but taking them as they came. Working through the night in my own solace. Then walking barefoot on the beach, gazing at the stars and hearing the waves roll. 

Slowly but gradually I found another colour, another pair of shoes – boots this time that printed in red. Red like the cherry pie my mother baked. Red like the crunching leaves in fall. Red like the lights around a Christmas tree.

I am content with the steady click of my boots, but now I know they have their time too. So when my feet begin to ache again I won’t hesitate. Walking on barefoot till I find another pair.