I'm still working on all these motherfuckin' PAGES!
Life is too short or some cliche bullshit like that.
Seriously though, I don't fold my clothes nor do I sort anything when doing laundry and maybe you should do the same, maybe you shouldn't - Make your own decisions, I'm not your fucking parent.
Folding clothes is a hassle for me, and I learned that I often won't put my clothes away if they aren't folded "properly" so I chose the next best option - To not fold them at all. My strategy is simple too, I have different drawers in my dresser for different articles of clothing, and when something comes out of the dryer, I slam dunk that motherfucker into the correct drawer.
Maybe you just needed permission from someone else - Don't fold your clothes, put 'em away as-is and learn to love the wrinkles. It's easier that way!
"Quiet as a Mouse" as they so say...
The Little Mouse most often did not go out to play, for he had been taught by experience to weather the storms - The storms which always rolled in over a horizon most drab and suffocating in its bleakness.
The Little Mouse sat and ran his small and rough pink digits across one of his more freshly-drawn wounds - Not yet a scar, but well upon its ugly way of becoming. The pads of his paws gently tracing the once-yellow-but-now-browned threads lining his raped flesh.
A certain kind of pitter-patter came trickling in from a distance, somehow not yet heard but felt - Felt as a sickening tension that permeated The Little Mouse's world. He knew what this meant all too well, oh he knew. Very soon would the thunder sing such a perverted tune - It would be booming and hollow, and it would come from her... Her - The one known by many names - Names befitting harm and love-at-a-cost - The Bloody Queen - The Seamstress - The Crimson Mother - Amongst others.
The Little Mouse's body and mind had the routine beaten into them like a railroad spike with a hammer - Thudding and crunching and blows all unkind in the same. His body flooded with a fleeting feeling and spoke to him "RUN. NOW. WHILE YOU CAN." The mind joined the chorus of voices - "Please... Run and find shelter quickly, Little One - She's coming!" His heart's ever-quickening "Thud. THUD. Thud." giving him a particular cadence to follow, and so The Little Mouse did as he knew, he skittered and he skattered to the only place of relative safety he knew.
Amongst the barren and battered hellscape that made up his world, he knew his place amongst it - His little upturned mug. A blue and purple thing marred by cracks that had been hastily filled with a kind of mortar - Its old and tired eyes watched as The Little Mouse approached.
He scurried in through a crack in the rim and found himself within its shell-shocked dome. "Little One..." Huxley spoke, "Find your stillness amongst my belly, for 'tis naught but a short matter now." The Little Mouse looked around at the slice of paradise offered by Huxley, which was no paradise at all. In fact, it was only a place of the most minor of refuge - The ground still sullied and dampened by the previous storm - He felt the cold mud between the webbing of his pink little toes, biting at him in a desperate attempt to steal the heat directly from his soles. The Little Mouse Squeaked so quietly and with such desperation and fear and grief, "Huxley... I know. I- I do."
Then came the rain. A torrential downpour that the still-wet-and-wicked grounds knew all too well, and with the rain came the thunder - It boomed so boisterously and without rhyme or reason - It had come to hurt whether or not knowing of its nature. Huxley and The Little Mouse become voiceless and settled into their all-too-familiar routine.
The wind howled an ugly and old sound that found its way in through the gaps in Huxley's mortar. The Little Mouse was quiet as he'd learned to be - He was The Little Mouse - That he was. The Little and Unconscious Mind - The Great Predictor - Once more had it picked up on what he had consciously not - He had learned to trust it fully in matters such as these. And then, the thunder came again, "BOOM!" - A most diabolical roar from the Scarlett Queen. Huxley spoke in such a somber and gravelly tune, "Forgive me, Little One, for I have not more to give..." The Little Mouse squeaking quietly in return - "It's... It's okay!" He quipped - "You... You are not my shield!" He proclaimed with a quivering voice and a stiffened being.
Once more, The Little Mouse fell into the depressing habit his mind and body knew oh-so-well.
A shrill cry screeched out over the hellscape, further stiffening The Little Mouse's being. Huxley groaned and trailed off "The Other Little One..." The Little Mouse heard it too, he heard The Other Little Mouse wailing in agony. The Little Mouse could not always muster up the courage to face The Seamstress - The Scarlett Queen - But upon such a fateful eve, he told himself through chattering teeth whilst awash with fear and uncertainty - "I have to go... I'm a helper, that's what I am! Defender of the weak! And... Right now, I have it in me!" The Little Mouse stirred at the sound of his wavering voice.
From Huxley's walls the little mouse drew his tools for waging not war, but a defence - His Little Needle, the trusty sword never used whose tip was always held firmly away from confrontation - His Little Button-As-A-Buckler that tried its best to blunt the blows - And lastly, his Little Thimble which did its damndest to guard his mind.
Huxley sang such a melancholy tune to the Little Mouse, "Be swift, Little One... Courage is costly." To which the Little Mouse squeaked back uninspiringly "I know. I- I know..." Once more Huxley sang, "I await you."
The Little Mouse squeaked so softly in return - "Thank you."
The Little Mouse, mired by fear and a quickening "Thud. THud. THUd. THUD." from his chest armed himself with might and swallowed his pinch of courage and asked his mind and body to give all they had left. In unison, creaking and eeking, the Little Fire and Flesh responded - "Here it is, now find your feet" and The Little Mouse bound step-by-step and paw-by-paw toward known hells.
...
The Little Mouse placed himself squarely between The Seamstress and The Little Mousie. The Little Mouse faced the known hell and squeaked with such zeal, such righteousness, and such justness, and such uncertainty all the same - "You... You!! You are not to do this! You are not to hurt others!" In response, The Seamstress, without thought nor care ran her already-bloodied seamripper across The Little Mouse adding to them a fresh wound that would in time reformate itself into a scar and settle amongst the others that lie upon his body and in his mind.
The Little Mousie wept knowing all too well what to do, but she could not - Her legs could not move as she was beyond herself. The Little Mouse did not falter, nor did he wane - He stood tall as his fur began to sparkle freshly with Scarlett - "You!" he peeped - "You! You Crimson Queen! You Seamstress, you! Look at me! I am your target!"
The Seamstress cut his flesh to ribbons and bellowed without care or thought - "LITTLE MOUSE! Look what YOU have MADE ME DO!" Through tears and anguish The Little Mouse made no sound and steadied himself upon his Little Needle - Wrapping his Little Paw through and around the eyelet which bore a bit of yellow thread. The Little Flame did not speak aloud but still spoke all the same - "Silver, it will hold us now" - The Flesh agreed and the Little Mouse shakily held his Little Button-As-A-Buckler in front of him as it was all he could do.
...
At this, The Crimson Mother bellowed her old and perverted songs and went about her way knowing - Offering temporary respite for The Little Mouse and The Little Mousie.
...
The Little Mousie cried "She hurts because she was hurt, Little Mouse!" The Little Flame spoke "She's right, you know" and The Little Mouse found himself awash with anguish - In a pervasive state of despair upon his realization that she who should stand with him against The Seamstress instead stood with her. The thought terrified him and his Heart cried honestly "ThuD. THuD. THUD."
The Little Mouse's innermost Counsel chimed in - A permanent echo of Huxley's voice that lived within his mind - "She speaks a truth that does not encompass the whole."
The Little Mouse stammered back to The Little Mousie - "A... An... And?" He squeaked louder now - "That does not make it right! Y- You have become blind to your own maw, you see!"
...
The Little Mouse limped and limped upon his limps back to Huxley who greeted him so sorrowfully, "Oh, My Little One... No - Why permit such happenings about yourself? Once more she has placed such sully upon your mane." The Little Mouse lifted a small and round face matted with blood and tears and squeaked so quietly, so softly, and so gently, yet with such determination - With a stalwart resolve built out of necessity - "Because... If not me, who else?"
Much to the chagrin of his body, The Little Mouse returned himself to Huxley's belly and let spill forth his feelings. He reached upon the walls and found the end of the spool of yellow thread which hung amongst an uncounted number of empty spools - He gently passed the thread through The Little Needle's eyelet and tied it off - Then, he began trying to sew himself up - As he had taught himself - However crude, and, at times, ineffective, it, at least, something.
...
In my mind, there's this notion that emotions are either positive or negative: joy is positive, anger is negative, and so on. Yet, when I think about these definitions, they quickly break down - alone, sorrow disrupts the system as it falls neatly into neither category.
From that realization sprouts a simple idea, that my emotions are, largely speaking, dependent on context, and therefore, they are neither good nor bad, they only are.
For instance, if someone were to attack me, responding with anger is not good nor bad, it just is. Contextually, the emotion makes sense, but any number of emotions fit the bill - shock, terror, surprise, stress, fear, and so on and so forth, but again, in and of themselves, none are quantifiable as right or wrong.
So then, where does this apparent revelation lead me?
The idea that emotions are contextually-based descriptors for my physiological and mental state, which lack any intrinsic rightness or wrongness about them; That nugget of personal truth lays the foundation for a far greater realization.
Whenever I feel an emotion that I've previously denoted as negative, with haste, I go about subduing its little flame that lives in my belly, and I do so in the hope of extinguishing it. I do my damnedest to snuff if out, not of it, but of fear of the fire's heat, of its blaze - frightened by the thought that I could burn another, and terrified that I may be consumed by it. Yet, despite my efforts, the remains inhale and exhale in shades of red, orange, and yellow, thereby reminding me of the fact that repression is an inherently self-destructive coping mechanism.
What follows that realization?
A conclusion that hides in plain sight like a nose. It's the antithesis of repression, liberation - to fully embrace that which arises naturally.
In what follows the liberation of emotions, its of the utmost importance that I identify and respect each of them for what they are and recognize their potential to bring about change.
Without a doubt, as is naturally, they will bring about change in their peculiar way, but that change is not predetermined, so, then, it falls upon my shoulders to be its shepherd - to guide it.
Such is the nature of those whom we've coined as "well adjusted."
The treading of my hurried footsteps upon the muddied floor, each step sounded an explosion within the tight corridors of the dungeon. The adrenaline pumped through me, I could hear and feel the blood being pushed through my veins.
My eyes darted from side to side, this didn't match the maps at all, or maybe I had missed something? It didn't matter now, I need not to think but to keep my legs moving.
What had happened? When I awoke the rest of the expedition members had been ripped to shreds. Their bodies mangled and strewn across the camp, I had little on me and was covered in blood. I knew whatever was there would be back, I only took what I had on me and ran.
Up ahead, a door along the left side of the corridor. A place to hide? I thought to myself, better than being run down while out of strength. I dug in my heels to stop, and hurriedly opened the door and brought myself into the room. I fumbled trying to get the door locked in my manic state, but I quickly managed.
It appeared to be an old bedroom that was now a storage closet, it'd do for now. I peeled my rucksack off myself, I always had it on me. It made for a decent pillow, whenever there was a lack thereof. From it I drew a box of matches and lit one.
It dimly illuminated the room around me, a reflection of light came from a mirror that was propped up on the old desk that sat oddly adjacent to the bed. My body begrudgingly moved under my command, my feet drug all the way to the mirror.
I looked upon the mirror in horror, my mouth was stained with blood and long silver hairs matted with red lined my face. I fell back against the wall bewildered by what I had seen, I was the monster.
I managed to pull open my rucksack that lied beside me on the ground, the scattered light from the now dropped match barely shone upon what was within. I sifted through the bag and my hand met the handle, as I removed it from the bag the light reflected off the chrome of the gun.
My hand shaking, I slowly raised it to my temple. The monster in me was not sated, it hungered for more. I had to put an end to it, I had already killed so many. A click of the hammer fell on deaf ears, the gunshot rang out through the empty halls and lifeless room.
I awoke to a scent unknown to me, and a low guttural growl. The last thing I thought was about how the bullets weren't silver, Amos carried the silver and I carried the lead. That's how it had always been, how could I have forgotten?