My Shoes Have Seen Things: A Sole-Searching Journey Through Modern Madness

Tell us about your favorite pair of shoes, and where they’ve taken you.

Shoes. The unsung heroes of human existence. Once upon a time, they symbolized adventure, freedom, and, if you were rich enough, a desperate need to flex. Now? They are nothing more than overpriced foot prisons, clinging to our soles as we shuffle through the mess we call “modern civilization.”

My favorite pair? Oh, let me tell you. These legendary relics have seen things—things no footwear should ever witness. They have carried me through grocery stores where eggs are treated like luxury items, gas stations where the price per liter makes me question capitalism, and sidewalks littered with QR codes asking for digital payments because apparently, cash is now a myth.

They have bravely trudged through malls where sales scream “50% off” but somehow cost more than before, through job interviews where the real question is, “Can AI do this better?” and through social gatherings where people debate which apocalypse will hit first—climate, economy, or AI overlords.

Oh, and let’s not forget their noble sacrifice in airport security lines, where they are yanked off, humiliated, and scanned for crimes they did not commit. Yet, they persist. Because they understand the greatest truth of our time: It’s not about where you’re going. It’s about surviving the trip.

So, dear shoes, I salute you. May your soles stay strong, even when the world crumbles beneath them.


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Kalyanasundaram Kalimuthu

This blog is where I dump my brain. Like a suitcase that’s been zipped too long—thoughts spill out, wrinkled, awkward, and not always useful. No tips. No advice. No “live better” tricks. Just messy, raw thoughts—sometimes funny, sometimes not. Sometimes I don’t even get it. I don’t even want to call this writing. Real writers might take me to court. What I do is more like emotional spitting, random keyboard smashing, and letting my thoughts run wild like unsupervised toddlers in a grocery store—touching everything, breaking nothing important, but still making everyone uncomfortable. I do this because it helps me breathe. It’s like taking the trash out of my brain before the smell becomes permanent. It helps me talk to people without tripping over my own words. Writing clears the traffic jam in my head—horns, chaos, bad directions, all gone for a while. If you’re looking for deep lessons or motivation, you’re in the wrong place. I’m not your guide. I’m just a guy talking to himself in public and hoping someone finds it mildly interesting. This is the mess I call writing. Or not-writing. Whatever. Like a broken vending machine—it may not deliver what you asked for, but sometimes it still drops something weird and oddly perfect.

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