Wiping the floor

   I hate doing it but my hands already reached for the babywipe.
   Started rubbing, scrubbing on the wooden kitchen floor,
   Sticky, gooey, apple juice stain and unidentifiable substance.

   I thought I cleaned up ten minutes ago.
   What the hell is this?
   Mumbling, grumbling, my mouth full of complaining.
  
   Will I ever finish cleaning?
   Will I ever be liberated from boring, energy consuming manual labor?  
   What's the point of wiping the floor in every ten minutes? It's gonna be messy anyway.
   Why can't I just let it be, let it go?

   Self-questioning again and again,
   Unnecessary self-tormenting couldn't be resisted.
   Looping conversations inside of me,
   Still couldn't stop rubbing and scrubbing.

   Ok, that's it! I shout out.
   I fling the brown and grey and black filthy cloth into the trash can.
   And I swear, I'm done wiping the floor!

   .     .     .     .     .


   But I know I'll wipe the floor ten minutes later once again...


   Because at the end of the day,
   I'll look at the shiny, glossy kitchen floor,
   I'll gently glide my feet and feel the cleaness on my sole,
   Then, I'll feel good... and happy.