I clean the counter not because it’s dirty, but because something inside me is shaking again— a quiet alarm with no siren, just a tremor under the ribs that says fix something, anything, right now.
The sponge becomes a kind of prayer, a way to smooth the places my mind can’t reach. I wipe the table and the body exhales, as if the order outside might stitch together the fragments inside.
Dust gathers in corners, but so does fear. And when I sweep, I’m sweeping more than crumbs— I’m sweeping the static that rises in my chest when the world feels crooked and my nerves spark like frayed wires.
Some people clean to tidy a room. I clean to steady a universe.
And when the floor is clear, and the air feels still, I stand in the quiet of a freshly made space and think:
Maybe this is what safety feels like— not peace, not healing, but a moment where the inside and outside finally match.