Welcome,
Today's story contains no plot,
No resolution,
Only fabric,
Specifically,
A sock.
Let's begin.
There is a floor,
And on this floor,
Beneath a chair that is too low to be useful,
Lies one lone sock.
Not balled or folded,
It's not waiting to be found,
It's not yearning for its match,
It is delighted to be here.
This sock,
This lone,
Lint-speckled rebel,
Has escaped.
Escaped from the tight,
Suffocating world of the sock drawer,
Where it lived beside its supposed pair,
An off-white sock named Carl.
Carl was fine,
Same shape,
Same fabric,
Same exact shade of off-white,
They matched in every way,
Except personality.
You see,
Carl liked routine,
Carl liked folding,
Carl liked order.
This sock wanted chaos,
It wanted freedom,
It wanted to lie under a chair forever.
You crouch beside the sock.
You ask it gently,
Do you miss Carl?
It responds with a powerful silence.
You respect that.
This sock has seen things,
Tumble cycles,
Static cling,
That one time when it was worn inside out to a job interview,
But here,
Under the chair,
It is free.
You consider picking it up,
But you don't,
You don't want to ruin this moment.
You and the sock in mutual neutrality.
Time passes,
The sock remains,
Unmatched,
Unmoved,
Unbothered.
It does not need a twin to be whole,
And maybe,
Just maybe,
Neither do you.
So you lie down right there on the floor,
Next to this emotionally self-sufficient sock,
And begin to dissolve softly into sleep,
Thread by thread,
Breath by breath,
No drama,
No laundry,
Just quiet,
And the distant memory of Carl,
Who somewhere in a drawer is still waiting to be reunited,
Poor Carl.
Nothing more will happen,
And that's exactly the point.
Sleep well.
