I left the laundry in the dark to think.
While I gingerly climbed the stairs to daylight.
What is it that makes things, living or not, different?
We come from the same origins.
Stardust when the universe exploded
a Milennia ago.
Where did this sentence, this inanity come from?
Does laundry think? Does it fear darkness
like small children sometimes do?
Does it possess life when traces of us
are ground into it with daily wear and use?
Old houses have memories, traces of energy of
those who lived within them and then moved on
temporarily, but often leaving a psychic imprint behind.
I love a mystery, a conundrum. I do not trust those
who dispel all mystery as nonsense.
Theirs must be a pedestrian life.
Nothing suits them but the most precise logical explanation.
Ah, so that is where my thought enters in.
My mind wanders, then wonders, on the possibilities
of laundry, being animate, and how it might be fearful
being left alone, unattended momentarily in the dark.
Here my awkward empathy makes a bow, not an intrusion.
I won't be dissuaded from the possibility
of wonder, fantasy or mystery.
Always been able to entertain myself, I have.
A facile talent developed among a society which shunned
me for my oddities.
Call me a Pseudo-Scientist but...
I like not fitting.
I cherish mysteries.
I love a possibility.
I trust who I am.
Copyright September 15 2012 All Rights Reserved By The Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo from her Tilt-a-World