his closet

His closet is a mess. It is evident that his clothes, previously strewn around his room, have been hastily shoved into the closet. The clothes hear him apologising to his guests for the mess in his room, almost as though he’s forgotten that he momentarily tucked it away from the eyes of his company.

His closet is big. That’s a perk of living in the suburbs; he could practically live in it. Still, he can never find anything in there. All his black clothes blend into a big pile of nothing, and he wonders if he’s staring at a black hole, his clothes lost in it. In search of That One Shirt, he tears the pile apart, and again his clothes are thrown around the room. He doesn’t find the shirt, and his clothes are left on the floor, only to be inevitably shoved back into the closet after six hours, seven hours, seven days.

His closet is a metaphor. A cycle of mess, constantly moving from behind to in front of the mirror door. Rinse and repeat. He stares into his own eyes and sees hopelessness. He never gets a break from his own mind; a cycle of unproductivity.