Kamal Ghorui
I keep walking in shoes that don’t really feel like mine,
I try to run; they restrict and hurt while I pretend everything is fine. I’ve run in them trying to chase restless dreams of my own,
But they always seem out of reach like a distance that has grown. I stumble, chasing after expectations- those uninvited guests.
Running relentlessly in shoes that don’t match the quests.
Honestly, I feel most at home in mediocrity; right in the middle, Nothing flashy, nothing mundane, mediocrity doesn’t feel like a riddle, Just a quiet meadow where all flowers bloom without pretending to be roses. I still get caught up chasing a version of myself in the mirror which society choses, Trying to fit my body, image and self-worth into standards that don’t quite fit, Almost like being myself is a crime from which I am waiting to acquit.
In a parallel universe, I imagine acing it all,
Perfect scores, like I stand tall for the long haul,
The whole “ivy-league fame” dream bound into each action and breath, But really, I’m just a chest of half-finished skills in stealth,
Owning each fall, yet walking in someone else’s shoes like paradoxes, Carrying around potential that refuses to stay in neat little boxes.
Thirteen years isn’t much, still need to fill a long check sheet,
Yet it feels like I’ve spent lifetimes wandering in shoes too perfect for my feet, Maybe the real journey starts when I finally take them off and walk barefoot, Feel the ground that’s meant for me, try different shoes and paths that I could, Let myself bask in the “mediocrity” territory,
And slip into the custom shoes that help me reach my own version of glory! Step into the time where I walk my own shoes….
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