Fabric of Life: How Does the Life of Cloth Mirror Our Own Existence?

While I was spinning — clockwise, then anticlockwise — in the washing machine, I drifted into memories of earlier today.

I had been resting on the top shelf of a beautiful wardrobe cabinet, among the best of the best. Neatly ironed, folded with care, and — if I may say so — smelling like gold. My peers whispered gossip about me. My friends praised the quality I carried, the color I radiated. I was on cloud nine.

Then came the squeaky sound.

For you humans, sunrise and sunset happen once a day. But for me, they happen every time the wardrobe door opens and shuts. That creaky hinge is my sun and moon.

A hand reached in and picked me up. The next moment, I was draped over a woody-smelling body. I was thrilled — finally, a day out. I had grown tired of the stillness, the silence, the waiting.

In the mirror, I saw myself paired with a crisp trouser. I looked sharp. I felt proud.

But then, without warning, I was removed and tossed onto the bed. My peer was chosen instead. I lay there all day, watching the light shift across the room. When my peer returned, he was stained with coffee, soaked in sweat, and heavy with the day’s dirt. Poor fellow.

Soon, I was picked up and dropped into the laundry basket, along with my peers and friends. We were thrown into the washing machine. I don’t like this detergent — it tears into my threads like acid. But I have no voice. No choice.

Now, I spin in a pool of water, surrounded by others. Soon, I’ll be wrung out until the last drop of moisture is forced from me. But don’t think my suffering ends there. I long to sun-dry, to feel the breeze. Instead, I’ll be tossed into a scorching electric dryer, my fibers twisted and turned until I no longer know which way is up.

Then, I’ll be folded, ironed, and returned to the top shelf. Waiting. Again.

You humans — are you, by any chance, comparing your life to mine?

Don’t.

You have a choice.