A cold, grey blanket disguised as eternal brightness, distress, and desolation. The light inside of my freezing body is dim and rigid. The skin covering my shell is clammy, pale, lifeless, defeated, and sad. My body aches, anguish and sorrow absorb my glow, draining every ounce of animation available. 

I loathe this season. The winter months bring apathy, not a glimpse of glossy grass and blazing yellow dandelions in my line of vision—December through February is the exact equivalent of a chalky pair of Nike Air Force 1s.

The pair of footwear lays unused in the far back of the shoe closet, buried deep beneath blankets and backpacks, shoved up against small plastic bins dusted in piled-up lint—untouched, unwanted. Dirt and grime from my younger self’s adventures cake up the lengthy crevices on the toe box, laces twined together in a ball, yet my bare white shoes remain unworn. 

Every day I shoot them a slight peer of curiosity, yet over and over again, my slender fingers reach for the vibrance, the energy, the excitement that is found within my Jordan 1s. 

New and unpredictable, they embrace the short span that is my life—car rides across the country and tubing on Lake Michigan, they are summer. The long waxy vines draped from side to side across the corner of my bedroom have butterflies specked amongst each individual leaf—composure and peace of mind. Opalite and satin spar, spread across my windowsill, absorbing the luminant summer sky—charged. 

They make me feel free. 

A pair of neon pink sneakers are my crimson summer tan. Angelically, the shoes mold to my feet, and with each individual placement of my foot, the icy blue soles melt into the heat of the sun waving over the concrete. Only recently I have become infatuated with sneakers and how to add my personal style into the footwear I end up tearing up and destroying—but through each step, I embrace myself.

With the stroke of a needle, dimmed and pastel blues, greens, and pinks were smothered over the shell of my once bare Dunks. Smooth and effortless, like the blooming of irises during the break of spring and dewdrops smothering the delicate Queen Anne’s Lace. Sun beaming down, the dyes soak into the fresh leather-like raspberries on my tongue. Sweet and elegant, they are peach iced tea throughout the baking August months, yet still, my thirst is unquenchable. 

Begging for options. The palest of pinks become my Jordan 1 Mids. Rarely selected first, yet never last. Displayed throughout my walls, they are there. Coconut popsicles disintegrate under the heat of the hefty, black soles, attracting all the sunlight—they are eyecatchers. Strangling looks from others— they are unusual, unseen, attractive, yet never first picked. 

The moment I slide into one of my shoes, I become that feeling, expression, masking of color. I become the fiery dandelions, plead to transform into dewy irises, long for the excitement that is brought forth by my footwear. Anything but the obsession and dullness of my simple, white Air Forces that are nothing to me.