The Poetry of the Red Shoes
I nearly died today, acquiring these red shoes.
There is something about them.
It is part of a special collection between H&M and Jimmy Choo. One time only.
An employee remarked that the crowd was: “like a pack of hungry wolves…devouring everything.”
One woman approached me while I was trying to nonchalantly balance the numerous boxes that tower over me in my arms.
“Can I have that?” She whispered loudly, staring straight at me, her eyes glazed over with a sheen of…confusion? Desire? I couldn’t tell.
“No,” I stared back, surprised by the calm of my voice when my mind is racing at a million miles frantically: Is she going to take my boxes? Why? Is she mad? Do I not seem like I want them? I am holding them, aren’t I? Wait…I am holding them, right?
“You can’t, I’m sorry.” I relented my gaze. I was never very good at staring contests.
Somehow, being in the presence of red shoes make me incredibly happy.
It’s maddening, I know.
I could weep poetries about their beauty.
It’s like the sky opened up and an unknown deity of limitless power reached down and pulled me up by the wrists, lifting me up in the air, rising through the atmosphere, higher and higher, the wind skins past my flesh with merciless force and yet leaving behind not a sliver of wound. Rays of the sun beam through me, envelop me with its millions of tiny fingers, and gently brush every molecule of my being alive with warm, miniscule yet definite vibration…I hum with notes of joy.
Yes…I could weep (but I won’t).
In a way, I secretly love the confusion of desires that swirls within me. The inexplicable draw fills me with curiosity, and wonder, and I happily leave it room to ferment.
There is something about them, the red shoes.
Yes, there is.