Matching the shoes


The morning daylight, an unknown feeling brought me back to face overloaded street containers.
Mountains of household junk, discarded, unrecognizable bits of nothing.
The shine that emminated from this dusty gamut of greys and browns came from some shoes,
white in colour, femenine in style, never worn.
I count six.
They are all of the right foot with fine variations of design and size
- none have a partner - none are the same.

I remembered that during the night in some dusty shop,
the owner had brought downstairs three pairs of identical red shoes
and had placed them infront of me on the large display cabinet.
They all fitted me perfectly.
I took the three pairs and disappeared.

I load my bag with the six shoes and continue.

That same night I found myself quickly crossing a wasteground
filled with mud and puddles as far as the eye could see.
Of the three pairs of red shoes there only remains one
- on my left foot - the others having disappeared with out leaving any clues.
With the other bare foot, in an unequal pace,
I splash in brown water,
advancing quickly in unknown delight.

I return home, I put the six right white shoes in a row. I examine them one by one.
Distrusting I see how one fits me perfectly.
I'm dumbfounded that the shoes have paired themselves up in such a strange way
- one of dreamtime and the other of wakefullnes.