A small moment I didn’t think about until I did.

I brushed my hair for the first time in a while and only noticed afterward.
The brush was heavy with it — old strands of hair, pale and dark, layered over one another, climbing out of its bristles and winding around the handle like something trying to escape.

I realized I hadn’t cleaned it in so long that it had stopped being a tool and become a record.
Proof of repetition. Of days passing without ceremony.

It had done exactly what it was made to do, over and over again, until it was overtaken by the evidence of its own function.

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