ambition
My closet is generally choking on pants and towels and t-shirts, usually there are tank-tops and bathing suits dripping from drawers, pajamas are often shoved into an available nook or out-of-sight cranny, so as to be hidden from the mindful eye of She Who Does Laundry. Shoes ooze out of the baseboards. As a sturdy room nobly doing its purpose, the closet would be pitiable -- classically overworked and underpaid; into this trembling structure toss a mountain of discarded tags stashed under and between, silken threads with concealed gold safety pins looking to strike. A collection of fabrics still wrapped in plastic, suited up and ready to do battle, an enemy army of shoes still in boxes, armed and dangerous. Yesterday I cleaned it all out. My cold weather clothes sit quietly in place, calm and relaxed and ready for a productive and peaceful season. Today I write the ending.
