The Traveller

See me feel me

13 MORE sleeps.

And the soundtrack of your pending departure is no more adagio; it’s become rather allegreto, sort of like Killing me softly to Last night a DJ Stole my Life.

God forbid that it should get to the agitato stage … 

For now you’re on Love, Love me Do.

And practising your winking in the mirror as you place another pair of boots in the box you have for them: your boots in a row, sandals and things in plastic shoe-boxes; your breathless handbags stretch a Shoprite plastic bag knotted at the handles.

Oh crumbs. It doesn’t fit in. Two boxes then, of shoes and handbags… that will stay at home, in your tin office turned storeroom.

You’re not Imelda Marcos but you do like footwear and it’s painful relegating your blue suede vedldskoene to obscurity.

Your cowboy boots, your shiny black splurge boots … there they are, discarded too in the caverns of caprice.

Choices. The commitment that is choice. This pair of shoes. No, that pair.

This type of life … no, that type.

Choices, change. 

You try Walking on Sunshine When Bouzoukis Played!

(ends)

 

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