Laundry

Laundry mounds in little heaps around the half-room, I shed every day to the floor to trip over later. If it's not important I'll reorganize clothes and blankets and towels into the closet and I'll wash it all some day one day: when I have the time, the motivation, and the quarters. It doesn't smell, it's not even soiled, but here is a stark reminder that I have things to do, obligations that wouldn't be there tomorrow if were I staunch enough to do them today.

Why shirk the journey? A basket a night and there wouldn't be any laundry in three days, save for what I don't have time to wear, neat and fresh and wrapped around a hanger, free from the sweat of stress and toil.

Life hidden in the silent folds of red and white and black. My mess of an existence is suffocating among the crusty sheets of just last month, the grease-less, royalty-free Levi's I haven't bothered to think of for even so long, and occasionally a nice white shirt or the confident feel-good briefs that I thought I'd lost forever. If you cycle it tonight you can wear it tomorrow and life won't suck up the floor space you want to have back, that drying rack doesn't need to be, and it's a clear trail to the bed when you stumble in drunk because you're stupid, and not desperate.