All alone in that dark room with it's heat and moisture. The constant hum of the machines lulls the neighbors to sleep at night and every morning, the lady is quick to start them up again.
Never any peace here.
He's been forgotten, left in the same place and without his mate.
Sometimes he feels like he's at the bottom of the pile, and like somebody has come and turned his whole world upside down. He's on top again, but only for a moment.
Because he's alone, and no one needs him like that.
They say they've searched for a match for him. They say that one may turn up any day and we just have to wait.
The machines whir and blur and the heat is excessive in this dark room, and still he is alone.
It's not the kind of lonely where you have time to contemplate or meditate or cajole yourself into thinking that you are okay. Just you, by yourself.
It's the kind of lonely that leaves you useless.
He's not meant to be alone.
Others pass through for awhile. Some are so worn with time and too much play that they end up leaving for good. Some are too big or too small or too roughed up to be of anymore use.
But he's left here because someday, surely, they'll find his mate.
What good is one sock?
Today at Lisa-Jo's we're writing for five minutes on the prompt: LONELY. Is your laundry room housing lonely, mismatched socks, too?