The sea stretched upto the horizon. A lonely poet sat on the shore, gazing distantly.

In his mind, he was thinking about how the sea can be so calm, so silent, yet composed. The eerie stillness was making him think that the water was concealing impending dangers within it. It was so deep. Mysterious. But still in motion.

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Another part of him had wandered off to a different part of the sea. There the breakers were crashing onto the  battered shore. The waves were playing about in glee. Every now and then, fishes swam in and out of realms of water. Turtles delved deep into the dark. In the middle of it, water was beginning to swirl into a hurricane.  The air around it was vibrating.  It was so much in motion. There was noise. Ear-splitting noises.
The poet wanted to dive deeper and deeper to enrich himself more and even more. He learnt from nature.

All throughout, he was draped in a cloak of silence. The noise of silence reverberated in his mind. Ripples of emotions enabled him to move. He flew in and out of intangible worlds of his imagination. He collected pieces of intelligence from his occasional reveries. He had protruded his roots deep into humanity, philosophy. The harder one aims to excavate him out, the more he could gain. He was like a bird in flight, drifting off somewhere else all the time , so that he was difficult to catch. He was gifted to paint colourful pictures in minds with words that were black and white. So dull, yet colourful. So full of life.

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A shoe came floating to the shore, along the ebb and flow of the tide. The first thing that the poet noticed about it was its motion. Up and down. It was amusing to him, how the motion of the sea had given rise to a motion in that single piece of shoe.
As himself, he believed that a shoe was what made humans travel, frisk about in a juvenile spirit. Treading on was made possible by a shoe. So, it encouraged motion.
Being poor, the poet wanted to put on the wet shoe. Then he considered,that the other shoe of the pair was somewhere else. It was experiencing something different, maybe not motion, in any sense.
If the owner of the shoes put on both at once, he might put upon imbalance between motion and stillness. So he left the shoe as it was and pushed it again into the waves, hoping that it might trail back from where it had come. And yes, in motion.

In such a way, the Sea, the Poet and the Shoe; were made equal on the plane of Momentum.