Unpaired Socks

The clock in the living room is broken because of me. It is frozen on “too late”. The spring is melting away the winter snow and I wonder whether I am ready for this. I do not know if I have learned to walk barefoot well enough to avoid slipping on all the lost hats, separated gloves and abandoned scarves I am about to see. Once peace arrives, one is faced with the second wave of mourning. Once peace arrives, one mourns the loss of oneself. In peace we hang up the lost objects on a rope stretched between the skeleton of buildings that once used to resemble something warm and familiar. In peace we wander through the trembling streets holding lanterns searching for matching socks that once used to only get lost in our washing machines. Sometimes this attempt is successful, but only sometimes when the moon is especially strong and takes mercy on humanity. But what good is this now? What good is this search now when there was no blessing in any of it and peace has acquired the aftertaste of dirty laundry water stuck in our throat.