Mental Laundry

The brain is not a washing machine. It doesn't launder, it sorts. It doesn't forget, it rewrites.

We run cycle after cycle, hoping to get the stains of the past out, but traces remain: scraps of phrases, fabrics scribbled with emotion, the scent of old decisions.

Words are like laundry after a spin: wrinkled but full of meaning. We dry them on the inner ropes of memory, in the darkness of consciousness.

And only in moments of silence do we see our reflected profile, woven from the threads of consciousness.