It was an age old problem. They kept breaking. It was long past time to find a proper solution and prevent this from happening.
But I won’t be the one to solve it.
By all rights I should be. My people have been in the business as long as anyone can remember. It is our livelihood. We all believed that one day one of our descendents would solve it. That may well still be true, but I know now that it won’t be me.
I am in love. That isn’t a complete shock, I’m sure. But my love is not approved. In fact, some will call me traitor for my love. For the fact that I cannot raise a hand to against her people any longer. And solving this problem, it would most certainly be an act against her people.
So I will not solve it. I am adrift, a castaway, broken by my unrequited love.
Around the bend, the next door opened into a surreal landscape of mismatched socks. The socks were all sizes, colors, and styles. And as far as the eye could see, there were no matched pairs.
There was also a quiet aura of misery as they socks grieved their missing partners.
In the center of the space was a clearing. It was here that new socks materialized from time to time. The recent arrivals hung around the edge, hoping to recognized the next sock. Their waiting was doomed to be fruitless.
The oldest socks lived in quiet isolation. A few of those tied their yarns off and leaped to their ultimate unraveling. The majority looked for the bright side to their fate. Life here can’t be all stick and no carrot.
Many hoped without fraying their residence would be temporary.
I tried to remain quiet, but my presence was quickly noticed, and I was swamped by a heap of young socks. All were still idealistic, and begged for help returning to the mundane world of laundromats and happy sock wearers.
I knew I didn’t dare offer to carry any without having some means to select the best candidate, and that I could not carry them all.