why i don't do chores.

i place a pile of clothes from my chair, to the bed, too lazy to put them in proper order, put them in the closet, on a shelf, underneath ceiling lights, in drawers, i'd rather put them aside, leave them for another day, a time when i am uninspired, leave them for a time when i don't want to sit with the silence. leave them for my mother to find. leave them for my taurus rising and virgo moon to notice. leave them with my electric bill. leave them on my 'to do' pile of things i'll never do. i'd rather... be sipping my overly fragrant breakfast tea, reading emails, thinking of pictures in my head, of why the things in my life haven't worked, or whom i'll be sharing my tea with tomorrow. it is morning again! another chance of not letting the sun shine in my room. another chance at breaking the memory patterns. another chance at swallowing air. oh the air! i think of memories, i don't think of scales, or calenders, or doing things in their right order. i think of glassy stars floating below my ceiling, and how the light hits the room forming rainbows. i think of far away worlds from this one. i think of creation, and the process of undoing. that is why i have no interest in vacuums, it is only when i want to hear their noise that i enjoy them. that is why i leave my floor filled with glitter and paste, gems and sea shell jewelry. that is why i don't do dishes, and i read poetry about immigrants.