Wednesday, February 11, 2015
These are my magic shoes. They've been there for me to put on for well over a year. When they were first purchased, they were able to magically bring me closer to Megan, because she had magic shoes too. Putting our magic shoes on together was the final good memory we shared. We were wearing these shoes when she felt the "pop", that was the first sign of her lungs rejecting. She was wearing her magic shoes when her body was reduced to ash.
Now, through the pain, these shoes can magically transform me in a different way. I can don these pieces of rubber and nylon, and turn into a different person. For one hour, my magic shoes let me feel like a kid again, like I never experienced all of the sickness and struggling and love and dedication and fucking death. The part of my brain that remembers death exists is shut down, and replaced with focus and energy. It is the only time my body and mind are separated. These shoes deconstruct me, and reassemble me into a better person. They perform the opposite function as before. I am distanced from Megan while I wear them, and it brings relief.
I'm careful not to abuse or overuse them. They mean too much to me; so much more than simple coverings for my feet. They are always hand carried into the only setting that they work in, and they are removed when the magic has ran out.
Luckily though, their effect lasts for a few days, until my mind powers back on and I'm plunged back into remembering that there really isn't any permanent cure for life, except death. That's when I know that I need to put my magic shoes back on and recharge them. See, they are powered by my body. The longer they sit collecting dust, the more their batteries run dry. The first time I put them on again, after 8 months of hell, my body had to work so hard to juice them up that I vomited twice and hovered on passing out. By the end of that cycle though, I knew that my magic shoes were still working to transform, protect, and improve me in so many ways.