It is the Friday afternoon, the hour of the sloth, when time itself seems to sag like damp laundry. Low energy meets the anticipation of a weekend. The air feels heavy, as if burdened by the knowledge that the week has been largely meaningless, and yet not meaningless enough to forget.
Before me lies a small domestic tragedy acquired over a few days: shirts, trousers, socks, back from the clothes stand in the balcony. All tangled together in an indecent display of domestic rebellion. I stare at them as you would at the wreckage of a modest life.
Folding clothes should be simple. Yet each piece seems to resist its fate, unfolding itself in small acts of defiance. Each short sleeve is a "f*ck you" to my slow hands. The socks mock me, appearing in odd numbers as if conspiring to prove that unity is an illusion. I proceed anyway, listening to the dull moan of the air conditioner. A strange satisfaction creeps in when a few staggering piles take shape.
The illusion of control restored for a brief, fragile moment. And then a pile collapses.
By the time I am done, the room looks marginally more civilized, though I cannot shake the suspicion that chaos merely hides, waiting for my back to turn. I feel the faintest whisper of accomplishment, absurd and fleeting. Perhaps this, is how the universe rewards order.
With clean folds and quiet despair.
Footnote: please remind me to remind me, to look in the washing machine for orphaned socks.
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