The burst of domesticity passed quickly, leaving only a clean kitchen floor as evidence. The lounge room lurked in diffused light. Muted, soothing colours distracting the eye from the dust-laiden depths of packed and cluttered bookcases. The gentle, lulling swish-swish-swish of the ceiling fan stirred the drifts of cat fur in the corners. Dirt along the sideboards added definition to the divide between floor and wall. Books and papers were strewn carelessly next to table and chair. Precarious piles of stuff teetered top bookcases from past half-hearted efforts at tidying.
Asleep in an old cane lounge chair with ancient floral pattern, feet resting on a white plastic basket filled with yet more random stuff, reposed a pudgy middle-aged woman; an open book and tabby cat on her lap.
The afternoon had dawdled. With only various types of football and other uninteresting offerings on television she had defaulted to reading, even though she had not really been in the mood for it. Should-haves and ought-tos and vague amorphous worries cycled pointlessly through her brain, making it impossible to concentrate and sapping her will to continue in a physical activity she deemed pointless. It will all just get dirty again.
She twitched as she dreamed. An acolyte of some esoteric order. She had been tasked with filing documents scattered across the floor of a room. As she achieved some semblance of order more papers would blow in and she would bend to work again. In true dreamlike fashion there were no doors or windows for these documents to come in from and filing cabinet drawers seemed endlessly long.
The dream had a surprisingly soothing quality to it, unlike if it were real life. Pressure-less occupation. No rush. Just infinite filing. An endless bloodless battle between order and chaos, in perfect balance.
Unlike my house, she thought when she woke, which is heavily weighted in favour with chaos.
The cat purred when she stretched. Aggressively limp and immovable. She pet him before pushing him off.