Boots

Boots aren't shoes. Shoes are for walking, boots are for confronting something. I first owned a pair of boots when I was in middle school. Back then, military boots with steel toes at the front were popular, and several boys in my class wore them. I saved up my allowance for a long time and bought a cheap imitation at a night market. The moment I put them on, I felt like I had become a different person—my footsteps made noise, echoing with a clack on the ground, as if every step was announcing something. Boots back then were armor, something my adolescent self used to pretend to be strong. Later, those boots wore out. The soles wore flat, the leather cracked, and the steel toes rusted. I didn't feel much when I threw them away. As an adult, I've bought several pairs of boots—hiking boots, work boots, rain boots. Each pair has its own function and its own weight. Hiking boots take you through gravel and mud, work boots protect you from nails and hot water, and rain boots let you walk through flooded streets as if nothing happened. They aren't pretty, but they are reliable. What boots taught me is protection. Not all protection is soft; some protection is hard, heavy, and makes your feet ache. But you need it because the outside world isn't always smooth. Some paths have thorns, some ground is slippery, and some places you have to step on without getting hurt. Boots take that for you, allowing you to keep moving forward inside them. But I also discovered later that you can't wear boots all the time. When you get home, you have to take your feet out of your boots, let your toes breathe, and let your socks sunbathe. People are like that too. You