The runaway red shoes

Such an obese and greasy lump of envy had stuck over my creativity in one lost season of balefully locked doors, when I was attacked by a pair of reckless red shoes! They stumbled out of that sewer of fat lard, and bullying bluster clogging every stairwell of my pen and ink!

It seemed unfair to be saddled with a pair of highly unsuitable red shoes. But they locked me up in their rather winsome red leather of recklessness! Then they began to put out a curriculum for each and every gruesome day that I had been tolerating till they came. Too much had been curdling in a sewer of waste and silences leading nowhere.
The red shoes began to scrape away at the mountain of phlegm stuck over every important pocket of power and pleasure that had made work worthwhile. As I began to listen to the timetable of the red shoes I found that they were in accord with mine! They did not badger me to confront, corner, fight, speak up, shout, screech or scrape off the malice and mischief hiding wisdom and worth. Instead they told me to bolt with them!
I agreed greedily. Being the meek and wormy sort who loves bolting of all types from the expected response of confrontation, I took off. The post box red of those shoes also carried mail from my dithering and dallying calamity of misery and mess. The shoes took me underground to find that silver nuggets in sullen rooms sneak out as if sorrow is bringing you soup like a kindly neighbour. Away from the carcinogenic corpulence, I discovered a new poem emerging from poisoned old chaos! Deep inside my muddle and murk, and too much mischief to tackle safely, I hid. But at least the rattlesnake ruckus crumbled away.

It was as if Mozartís heart-rending Requiem was inspecting my horrendous mountain of dismay and disarray with such tender interest, that the calamity became enchantment. It was an endearing note from life, to let go and shimmer in Mozartís mesmerising magic. To listen to music talking to your personal hell, is one of lifeís most astounding delights. A mysterious magic that made every muddle, every gruesome game vanish into the sewer of turbulent twittering that is best left to its own dribbling.
My checkbook of courage was still used up. But the riches under the rubble were coaxing. Luckily, life’s real treasures are always within the red shoes and the fattest turbulence cannot ferret them out.

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