“Red Flats” Fiction. Based on a True Pair of Shoes I Wear Every Day.

“…all the human sorrow we attach to things, and it’s just about our own self love… I mean we can disguise it as self love, but at the end of the day, self love is just getting who we are and experiencing who we are, and knowing it from our core.”

-Maya McClean

“Red Flats”

Fiction. Based on a True Pair of Shoes I Wear Every Day.

By Sparrow

All journal entries are inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

I wake up.

Immediate onset of anxiety.

Do I have to wake up?

I think about you and the distance between us. 

I wince at the prospect of leaving the house to go to work. 

Will I be able to get through today without another attack?

I just cry and attach sorrow to existence. 

So much rests upon my sunburnt shoulders.

I look back at the last few months.

I look ahead to the next few months.

Anxiety once trickled between my ears and down my spine.

Now it floods over me like an ice cold shower in winter. 

Yet I wake up.

I drive over an hour.

Sometimes I turn on music or a podcast. 

I accomplish what is asked of me.

I sell and sell and sell.

I smile and smile and smile. 

I do the best I can. 

At lunch, I eat enough to physically survive.

I drive to the next job.

I still need my GPS.

I arrive and each minute ticks longer and longer.

The hours stretch endlessly. 

I talk and teach and talk and teach.

I smile and explain.

I point and sharpen pencils. 

My feet grow weary in my red pointy-toe flats.

I think about you also working your second job of the day.

Will we ever exist outside this state of constant weariness?

I leave work, nibbling on chips for dinner as I drive home in my VW Beetle.

I try to let the weight of work fall away.

But I remember tomorrow’s schedule mirrors today’s.

The sorrow of simple existence brings tears to my eyes.

Why am I depressed just at living?

I shower and crawl into comfortable pajamas, relieved to be barefoot.

I roll into bed and wait for your call.

We talk for approximately 12 minutes while you drive home.

You walk up the stairs, shower, and pull on your version of pajamas.

We fall asleep apart.

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