Searching through a drawer in a locked room in my mind, or is it my consciousness? Nevermind. The key is I got in with no key and am locked from the outside in. Like an outward wind knocked out of me – breath taken – the punch out – the anti-win.
The drawer is filled with socks. Not few, many, some or lots just a shit fucking ton of socks upon socks. More socks than any one soul’s lonely soles could ever need to feel warm and safe.
“Socks for eternity” I say, monotone. Aware I am stuck with socks forever alone. I look around my prison – this locked brain/heart/mind/spirit creation of a room – and there is nothing. No walls, no doors, no windows, no floors. Nowhere to go with every which way and direction one could go. Locked in perpetual opportunity, the lucky lost ones paralyzing indignity.
So I go back to the Sock Drawer, which isn’t rooted to the floor (for there is none) yet it does not “float”. It stays still, weighted, heavy, grounded despite the literal groundlessness of its own situation.
This causes pause – How does this drawer stay up right, stay coherent amidst this empty place filled with chaos? For that matter what is it my feet are standing on if not a floor (for remember, there is none)? Is it their own will and desire that keep me upright? Is it in that creation we escape the insanity? The truth that all of us are energy and molecules bouncing off the horizon of the universe and coming into consciousness as neurosis filled humans staring at a drawer of socks.
I did what comes natural in any non-sequitur existence, which is all perspective anyhow. I turned the socks into Sock Puppets.
Each sock a different being. Some man, some beast, some cotton threaded fleece. All with their own back stories and names, distinct character flaws and self deceits. And they will talk and play, discuss theories, argue, and tell jokes. Share tears of laughter and tears of sadness and tears for tears sake. They fall in love. They hurt one another.
Eventually they grow old and filled with holes both literal and meta-physical. But that is the cycle of life and as soon as they depart new fresh socks, with new fresh sock smells and new fresh sock ideas replace the moth ball husks of the old crew.
But they are just socks. In a nonsense drawer. In an empty locked room in my empty locked mind. Does this make their problems insignificant? No, it makes them mine. So what does this say about me? Am I the socks, are the socks me, are we all one of the same pair? That answer I am not going to perceive to try.
I just know I will pull on these socks, one foot at a time, and the keyless locked room will open and I will leave. I will move on and live every breath with the comfort that my soul’s sole is embraced.
– E.s.K –