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“Am I in love? – Yes, since I am waiting.”
The other one never waits.
Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn’t wait;
I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late;
but I always lose at this game:
whatever I do, I find myself there,
with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time.
The lover’s fatal identity is precisely this:
I am the one who waits.

-Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse

aspiring writer
perpetual dreamer
idealist-masquerading perfectionist
eternal optimist
unrepentent obsessor

[ 9:48 PM ]

Steady as she goes

I have a story to share about my shoes.

I bought this pair of shoes a long time ago. I remember the day I bought it. I didn't need new shoes. I didn't want new shoes. I wasn't even in the mood for window shopping.

The shop was filled with shoes. Many different pairs to fit many different tastes and wants and needs. Like I said, I didn't want or need any. I walked around half-heartedly, glancing mindlessly at the rows and rows of shoes. I wandered around the shop for three, maybe four times. I pretended to try on some, just for the sake of doing so. The shoes were beautiful, but I just didn't want any.

Then, this particular pair caught my eye. I must have passed it several times. It was nothing spectacular, sitting quietly in a corner. It didn't even look like it was for sale. I slipped the pair on anyway, and instead of me wearing the shoes, it felt like the shoes wore me. The shoes chose me as its owner.

Of course I bought them. You know the saying about how wearing the right shoes will bring you to wonderful places? I didn't just buy myself a new pair of shoes. Along in the box came dreams and fantasies and promises of everything magical and pretty.

I wore them everywhere. The shoes became more comfortable as I wore them. I guess you could say they were growing on me. But it was not just about comfort. It's about the wonderful feeling I get when they're on my feet that keeps them there.

After a long while, the shoes became less comfortable. At first I ignored the pain. I walked too much. They weren't meant for long walks anyway. I continued wearing them and tried not to walk so much. But at the end of the day, my feet were still covered with blisters. It must be the way I walk. Mum was always telling me to walk more like a lady.

Every step I took hurt a little bit more, but I continued to walk. I took smaller steps. I slowed down my pace. I became more cautious of my steps. I'd wince as I walk, containing my pain and disbelief.

The blisters started to spread. The big toes, the little toes, the heels, everywhere. I plastered them up and prayed for them to heal. I hate scars. I continued to wear my shoes. It wasn't their fault, it's the way I walk. I just need to find out how to walk properly in them so it wouldn't hurt.

One day, I realised I just couldn't put them on, not anymore.

Now, they are back in the box, along with the dreams and fantasies and promises of everything magical and pretty.