Wash, rinse, repeat.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
Wash, rinse, repeat …
Love doesn’t make any sense. I’m guessing — it’s not supposed to. Trying to apply my ‘usual’ logic and common sense when it comes to love, has proven foolish in the past.
Like a lioness that can’t be tamed, love thrives in the wild. There’s a peculiar, repetitive — yet not mundane rhythm to it.
Falling in love can take just a few minutes, and last forever.
‘It’s a powerful force, like a man-made cyclone’ — I thought as I sat watching the washing machine. It was doing its thing with my laundry, round and around it went. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, ‘maybe I’m being hypnotised’ I thought — somebody should’ve pinched me. They didn’t.
I was really hungry, I skipped breakfast — well, I had tea and biscuits earlier (I don’t drink the tea, it’s just for dipping, helps the biscuits go down), but that was hours ago. I should get off my arse, get some sort of lunch going — but I stay seated.
I kept watching.
The machine continued, it went round and around again.
Love can spin you around like that. Making you dizzy, now left is right and up is down. You just can’t help it, can you?
If you loved somebody once, do you love them still? Maybe they just become like blurred words on the wet paper you remember you left in your jeans pocket — (oops) difficult to read. So, you stop trying. But the paper, well that remains ink stained.
The machine goes into that super spin, I think it might just take flight — a twister that rockets straight through my kitchen ceiling. The sky above is grey. Cold, unfeeling. The clouds don’t look light and fluffy anymore, they look heavy — ready to release a rainstorm.
I can’t stand the rain.
At twenty years old, my then boyfriend told me ‘you know it’s over, I know it’s over — so why am I still here?’ Before I was chanced to respond, he walked out the door. He was right, I knew it was over. I followed him out the door anyway. ‘Let’s just talk’, I appealed as he continued to walk away. Silence. He’s speed walking and I’m trying to keep up a few paces behind, he starts jogging — now so am I.
I stop, and he jogs away into the distance. It’s dark. It’s raining, I’m soaked. I go back home. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so bloody tragic, it was like a bad sitcom. The thing is, I was the unfunny joke that night — nobody got the punchline.
The machine stops, washings done. Time to unload. I noticed the little ink stain on my jeans front pocket, oh well — I’ll get it in the next wash.