Bleach, and Sadness

There are those that enjoy the act of cleaning.

There are others that do not.

There are some that clean, daily, compulsively, and consistently.

And there are others that regard it as a burdensome bore.

Regardless in which class you place yourself, cleaning is a necessity.  Whether approached with regularity, or abhorently, failure to disperse the collection of organic materials will inevitably lead to ill-effects on ones health, and on the health of others, if one is considered a social person and entertains guests.

We are blessed, in this modern time, with abundant resources that aid in our cleaning endeavors, whether we utilize them with frequency, or irregularity.

When we wish a daily, or, bi-monthly, or and even longer interval abject obliteration of germs, dirt, grime, stain, muck, bacteria, virus, scum, or any other specific undesirable conditions, we turn to a never-failing, non-organic agent, bleach.

We apply this viciously effective agent to cloth, sponge, brush, or another implement designed to take the caustic liquid and with the precision, and effectiveness of napalm upon a withered cornfield, obliterate every piece of organic matter.

What remains, is an immaculately purified surface; any semblance of life and nature abrasively scrubbed from its plane.

What occurs next, for the cleaner, is an intense feeling of satisfaction, at beholding a fiercely sterilized area.

What follows, is a nostril stinging, vision blurring, chemically heavy assault from the bleach as it wafts from the cleaned surface to the applicants senses.

What lingers, as the cleaner blinks through an acerbic fog, is a momentary feeling of sadness, as the former, familiar, comfortable, and pleasing notes of ones own organic touch, are replaced by the smells of a community pool mixed with acid, and petrichor.

The cleaner then opens a window, to dispel the intense notes of chemical cauterization, then waits, with subtle anxiousness, for the feeling of  sadness to leave with it.

 

Humbly yours,

J

 

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