Fear, a Spider in My Slipper

I once thought fear wore a vampire cloak—dark, dramatic, blood-curdling. Turns out, fear sometimes wears eight legs and hides in a slipper.

Yes, it began with a spider in my Bata slipper. Not a metaphorical one. A real, hairy-legged, eight-eyed creeper that had clearly mistaken my footwear for an Airbnb.

I was ten, ready to conquer the world—or at least the kitchen—until I slid my foot in and felt something fuzzy move. That scream? It echoed through three houses, made the neighbor’s cat climb a coconut tree, and my grandma drop her pickle jar like a Bollywood drama twist.

From that day, every shoe became a suspense thriller. I shook my sneakers, interrogated sandals, and once even apologized to a slipper—just in case.

“What if the worst happens?” my brain whispered.
“But what if it doesn’t?” my heart countered, years later.
And just like that, the web began to untangle.

With time I’ve learned: “Fear isn’t your enemy—it’s just a dramatic storyteller with a wild imagination.”

Yes, I still tap my slippers sometimes. Not for spiders—just out of habit. And poetic paranoia.

As someone once said (yes, me again):
“Courage is not about killing spiders. It’s about walking past them… even if you scream a little.”

Thought to ponder:
Is your fear truly monstrous, or have you just given it too many legs? 🕷️