There are piles of cotton everywhere in my house. Fuzzy blankets and squishy stuffed animals and bright mini socks and baskets of laundry and and and. It’s everywhere. It’s adorable and it drives me crazy. It’s so sweet and Little Miss loves it hugs it and names it George… and it drives me crazy.
And so! A poem:
Drowning in cotton
as cute, plush piles reach higher.
Makes me crave sharp stuff.
Too dark? Oh. Sorry. But I’ve been driven to writen a poem and YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.
I get a strange thrill out of frail objects these days. Breakable glasses of fully spicy wine (that don’t get knocked over)… delicate, dangly earrings (that don’t get yanked, really they are just pretty handles at this stage)… electronics (without peanut butter smudges)… sunglasses (ditto, smudges)… All this limp, safe cotton makes me jones for something fragile.
You? Does living dangerously now include being in the presence of things that are not indestructible?