The sopping mess

I've been spinning in a vortex of ordinary, pulling me in and taking me under. Caught in mid-cycle, muddled within the eddy of laundry in the washing machine. Dull as my dishwater. Beyond repair as my hair. But there is always tomorrow - the rinse and repeat.

More moments in another humid little room. Musty fishtanks, foul odour puppy-dog carpet and fur covered blankies, clean mixed with mingy piles of clothes covering forbade flooring. I pass the fridge and it's uneaten leftovers, walk across a stack of empty boxes due for recycling, then push my way through coats blocking the doorway (all the while thinking about how empty the hall closet seemed). Inside this room looms the ever-full hamper, a basket of fresh but wrinkled clothes and nary an extra hanger for them.

I know I must get to those dirty dishes. Sweep up kibble and hairballs. Start a rejectable supper. Maybe I'll wander off to play a mindless game and stop the wondering why. Does it even matter?

I recall a few journal entries that only made it to paper, I'd never posted. They seemed kind, dire, and so very fragile. Smudgy and greyed with pencil. Easy loss in a pocket unturned. Not near permanent as black type on a bright white background, a word file. Saved as, published - blogged into being.