There's a peculiar comfort in the circularity of everyday tasks—like the way the laundry spins in its own little vortex. Sometimes it feels like the universe operates on a similar rinse-and-repeat schedule. In the beginning, there was the sock, and in the end, there was a solitary pair, mismatched but satisfied.
Have you ever considered how strange it is that coffee cups seem to have an inherent gravitational pull towards spillage? It’s as if they conspire with the fabric of trousers to create an unexpected art piece during your morning commute.
Once, I met a man who insisted he could predict the weather based solely on the pattern of his cat’s fur. As absurd as it sounds, he claimed that every swirl of orange and white held an omen, a foreshadowing of rain or sunshine. I wonder if his cat ever forecasted anything significant, like the rise of spaghetti as a formal dance partner.
Circles within circles, the bureaucracy spins—endless paperwork repeating its sentence in the archives of an office building. Round stamps upon round forms. Circularity, thy name is bureaucracy.
Exploring the circularity of dreams, I found myself back in the same market, beneath a canopy of oranges and forgotten conversations. Every turn in the aisle echoed with the ghost of a decision not made, a path not taken. Their fragrance was a reminder that some things are destined to repeat, no matter how many detours we take.
Revisit the spiral world of office bureaucracy or perhaps consider the spaghetti dance.