Anxiety Is the Color Pink

A towel that is white is useful and can clean and be cleaned. A towel is most functional in this form. And suddenly a sock, a sock that is red is thrown into the wash and now our white towel is pink. How the towel tossed and turned and fought and squirmed about in that basin with the sock, trying to squish against the walls and avoid that seeping, insidious, leaking red dye. But it soaked in and became apart of the towel, all the same. entwined in its fibers, pounded into its weaving mercilessly soaking into its being. Nothing is white for the towel anymore, not bodies to dry or water to clean it is pink all pink that spreads and separates and the towel may no longer experience white. Our towel, once white is tinged, singed, tainted, corrupted, violated. It is not its whole self, a towel, that is, it is an unclean rag that is tired and worn out, frayed and stained. Sure we can toss the towel in the wash, douse its body in abrasive bleach to try to wipe clean the slate and return our towel to its most useful state. But our towel will thin, and pill, and remain just a little bit pink.