Requiem for a Sock
The morning was painfully stereotypical and dreary. Routine. Routine. Routine. I showered, I shaved,I brushed my teeth, I opened and closed the dresser drawers in the same sequence that they’ve always been opened and closed. The last to be opened, as always, was the sock drawer. A pair was removed and stretched onto my feet but, the right sock didn’t do it’s job to the full. It didn’t cover my entire foot, in fact, it barely covered my foot at all. Toes dangled and soles were chilled. I took the sock off and inspected it. I’m not sure what I was expecting to uncover through this inspection but I carried on with it anyway. I continued to stare at the sock considering my options. Yes, I had options. I realize that most people, in this occasion, would throw the sock out and would unquestionably call that logical. But I had too many things to consider. Too much was on the line.
First thing to consider: Where did this hole come from? “Hole” isn’t the right word here. Void. Where did this void come from? It takes time for this sort of thing to develop so, where was I? And where was my foot? I’d hope that my foot hasn’t been somewhere that I haven’t been because that just raises a series of questions that I do not want to have to face. Maybe I’m looking into this hole too much it just seems like this would be the kind of thing I, or my right foot, would remember experiencing.
Second thing to consider: What do I do with the left sock? I can’t throw him out, he doesn’t have a hole. He is still a fully functioning member of footwear society. He wouldn’t be, though, if I trashed Right. He’d become a deadweight, a burden on all of the other socks, spending his nights in seedy bars trying to drink his problems away. It won’t do you any good, Left, and you know it. He will start to blame himself after a while, telling himself that if he hadn’t been so tightly woven they would have both frayed. They would still be together. He wouldn’t have a reason to live anymore. Not if I threw out Right.
I put the sock back on. Don’t worry, Right, I won’t let them take you. I briefly question what kind of person forms emotional bonds with his or her socks. Maybe I should get a dog. And some sandels.
First thing to consider: Where did this hole come from? “Hole” isn’t the right word here. Void. Where did this void come from? It takes time for this sort of thing to develop so, where was I? And where was my foot? I’d hope that my foot hasn’t been somewhere that I haven’t been because that just raises a series of questions that I do not want to have to face. Maybe I’m looking into this hole too much it just seems like this would be the kind of thing I, or my right foot, would remember experiencing.
Second thing to consider: What do I do with the left sock? I can’t throw him out, he doesn’t have a hole. He is still a fully functioning member of footwear society. He wouldn’t be, though, if I trashed Right. He’d become a deadweight, a burden on all of the other socks, spending his nights in seedy bars trying to drink his problems away. It won’t do you any good, Left, and you know it. He will start to blame himself after a while, telling himself that if he hadn’t been so tightly woven they would have both frayed. They would still be together. He wouldn’t have a reason to live anymore. Not if I threw out Right.
I put the sock back on. Don’t worry, Right, I won’t let them take you. I briefly question what kind of person forms emotional bonds with his or her socks. Maybe I should get a dog. And some sandels.
