Socks are a wonderful and often overlooked form of expression.
There is something inherently dorky, but cool about wearing renegade socks. I have worn these socks for years; I wear them with everything. I wear them under power suits and blue jeans. I wear my Bowie socks at every opportunity. They give me a swagger and a twinkle in my eye. They are my secret... until now.
My Bowie socks are dying a rock and roll suicide. They have reached the end. I wore them today at work. Having them on gives me attitude and yes, strength. It's odd having such a connection with socks, but these aren't just any socks. These are my Bowie socks.
There's not much left of them. I have been ridiculed for my Bowie socks. The heels have been long gone. The toes, too. Now as the thread-bare socks give way to holes, the end has come.
I love you, Bowie socks. I will bathe you one last time in the washer; tumble you in the dryer and create you anew. Not at socks though, but as a memory.
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