When a major disaster occurs, the human organism needs time to reconfigure itself before moving forward. Hence my distress since Hillary Clinton lost the 2016 U. S. presidential election.
For awhile my despair manifested itself in the usual ways: shattered sleep, loss of appetite, tearful outbursts, existential fatigue, and a need to be around other people (preferably large groups characterized by global diversity).
Last night my derailment took on a less-generic aspect. I awoke at 2 a.m. and jumped out of bed in a panic. Half-asleep, I rushed to my clothes closet, dove to the floor, and crawled around checking to see if all my shoes were there. (This task was made difficult by the fact I'm not exactly sure how many shoes I own or what they look like.) As my sleep fog cleared, I sat on the floor and pondered my activities. It seemed that I was worried my shoes were so disgusted by the presidential election results, they decided to walk away on their own and go live some place where only shoes are allowed to dwell.
To the best of my knowledge, all my shoes opted to stay with me. I don't know if they remained in my closet because they're looking forward to marching in the streets, or if they hope I'll get so angry I'll take them out to kick some ass, or if they're just waiting for instructions from their leader (me) about what to do next.
Regardless of why my shoes are still here, I'll take their presence as a gesture of solidarity, a vote of confidence that all is not yet lost. It's a confidence which I'm not feeling myself, but sometimes you gotta just listen to your shoes.
