Words flow out of my mouth like clunky wooden shoes at a fancy dress ball. I hide them under the skirt of my upper lip, rendering them invisible to all but those who can see through silence to my uncouth footwear.
“Why are you talking to her, she’s only a clog!”, they whisper.
The fashion conscious fear my presence; the quiet stillness of my unseen shoes leans heavily on their glass slipper chatter, becomes an ominous crack of dread in their idyllic world of shoe design interaction.
The not knowingness of my unspoken footwear creates a miasma in their minds. My mysterious intentions careen out of control like a pair of three inch spikes on a perforated metal staircase.
Suddenly I am a pair of smelly old gym sneakers, soles flapping as I shuffle past them, plastic bags brimming with poorly designed loafers and flip flops; a used footwear salesman, a spoken word terrorist – the non verbal communicator.
Without warning, a black hole appears in the dance floor, sucking all of their oral footwear into its vortex; screams turn to gasps, shock at suddenly finding their feet stark naked, like, like - cavemen!
A huge vacuum of silence descends. People scramble for writing instruments, but after a while, with no words to defend themselves, to intervene with the process of mating, people begin to dance, to touch, to listen with their senses.
Gestures flow like fine wine into cups of understanding, eyes flirt with actions, and kissing becomes all the rage.
I smile as I depart.
My work here is done.
above images all pixabay creative commons
