There’s a simple joy to folding clothes. At 2 AM, I descended to my room only to find the pile of unfolded laundry I had left on my bed. I was dismayed at not being able to sleep sooner, but soon enthusiastically dove into the task of folding the seemingly countless pieces of fabric. One at a time I take a piece of clothing, roll it, put it down.
At first, it doesn’t seem to make an impact. The pile still takes up most of the bed, and I stack things on my pillow. But soon, the somewhat uniform rolls of shirts, socks, and underwear start forming neat patterns. I work in silence for a while, then put on music on my phone, quietly. My mind numbs and my hands reclaim the deftness achieved from the hundreds of times I’ve completed this task.
It’s a relaxing break from the rest of my day: sitting absolutely still, thoughts of what I need to do and complex ideas I need to synthesize flying around tortuously in my skull. Here there’s no new information, just what I have in front of me, and my hands do their thing, slowly reducing chaos to order, a steady, comforting progress.
Originally written on January 15, 2020. Edited on February 13, 2020.