The Essence of Things Forgotten
Life is full of little details. The details that become inconsequential the moment they fall out of the parameters of a particular moment, but while a part of it, their importance is of great magnificence. It’s the little things that come haunting when you least expect them. Like the line from a movie you saw just once, that means so much just when you are ached, bending above the dishwasher to load the dinner plates.
“First class—it used to be a better meal. Now, it’s a better life.”
:) Ok, so I am deliberately misquoting to give a different picture. But something to that tune. You get it.
However, more precisely, I am talking about the rubber band you were playing with during the course of an hour long conversation with a friend. But the second the call comes to an end you have no more use of the piece of plastic. It lingers, used and over. The entirety of its existence summarized in minutes. Its sentence pronounced and on the verge of being enacted. And yet, as you decide to throw it away along with the rest of the waste, your fingers of their own accord, twitch for a couple of seconds, not wanting to throw something that—even if briefly—meant something. And along with that wave of sentimentality you realise that the grand scheme of things, life, dictates that you must throw away the rubber band. It is not needed.
So why then, some hours later are you missing the rubber band. Is it only because it was something repetitive to do? Or is there greater meaning to the small things? Is life built on a hierarchy of objects? Do things build up in a pyramid of sorts, with you somewhere at the bottom, middle or top? What identifies LIFE? Is it tangible, a consequence of events, a litter of things we touched, now gone? Or is it something even more intangible? Did the collection of coins make me? Horded empty perfume bottles—what were they to me?
OR are we as humans born as empty shells, where during the course of years we collect things from all around us. A little sand and shells to stuff the toes. An old stuffed toy or doll to fill the hands…and in that fashion build our vessels full. But one wonders, when does the point of satiation come. Sorry, no I have taken the conversation to another level. I have un-objectified the human body. Not satiation. So when is the tank full? Is it ever full?
Strange.
I have always wanted to pen down these words. They wander the empty corridors of my mind, and as of this moment are creating quiet a ruckus knocking themselves silly against walls in an attempt to get attention. And so, though they will have no beginning, no end, I will pen them down: “…the serpentine of afternoon traffic…”
Poor orphaned fellows. They are born in abject anonymity. No celebration of arrival. No beginning, no end and no story board for a life. Maybe one of these days (years) I’ll pick them up again and mould them a better life. A life where there is something of meaning, something of consequence. A story. Till then, they will meander the wild, much like the image in evoke.
Maybe, they were better off in my mind. Maybe now said aloud they will live, maybe forgotten? Who knows.
“First class—it used to be a better meal. Now, it’s a better life.”
:) Ok, so I am deliberately misquoting to give a different picture. But something to that tune. You get it.
However, more precisely, I am talking about the rubber band you were playing with during the course of an hour long conversation with a friend. But the second the call comes to an end you have no more use of the piece of plastic. It lingers, used and over. The entirety of its existence summarized in minutes. Its sentence pronounced and on the verge of being enacted. And yet, as you decide to throw it away along with the rest of the waste, your fingers of their own accord, twitch for a couple of seconds, not wanting to throw something that—even if briefly—meant something. And along with that wave of sentimentality you realise that the grand scheme of things, life, dictates that you must throw away the rubber band. It is not needed.
So why then, some hours later are you missing the rubber band. Is it only because it was something repetitive to do? Or is there greater meaning to the small things? Is life built on a hierarchy of objects? Do things build up in a pyramid of sorts, with you somewhere at the bottom, middle or top? What identifies LIFE? Is it tangible, a consequence of events, a litter of things we touched, now gone? Or is it something even more intangible? Did the collection of coins make me? Horded empty perfume bottles—what were they to me?
OR are we as humans born as empty shells, where during the course of years we collect things from all around us. A little sand and shells to stuff the toes. An old stuffed toy or doll to fill the hands…and in that fashion build our vessels full. But one wonders, when does the point of satiation come. Sorry, no I have taken the conversation to another level. I have un-objectified the human body. Not satiation. So when is the tank full? Is it ever full?
Strange.
I have always wanted to pen down these words. They wander the empty corridors of my mind, and as of this moment are creating quiet a ruckus knocking themselves silly against walls in an attempt to get attention. And so, though they will have no beginning, no end, I will pen them down: “…the serpentine of afternoon traffic…”
Poor orphaned fellows. They are born in abject anonymity. No celebration of arrival. No beginning, no end and no story board for a life. Maybe one of these days (years) I’ll pick them up again and mould them a better life. A life where there is something of meaning, something of consequence. A story. Till then, they will meander the wild, much like the image in evoke.
Maybe, they were better off in my mind. Maybe now said aloud they will live, maybe forgotten? Who knows.
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