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.