1. 08:53 19th Feb 2012

    Notes: 13

    Reblogged from onnothingandeverything

    onnothingandeverything:

    A retreat, to the reassuring comfort of imperfection and worn love embodied in the inanimate objects occupying the stark emptiness of a hasty existence.  She understood their story.

    It always starts with a novelty that sparkles; a gleaming flawlessness that snatches vagrant attention and pleads with sense for rescue from shameless display (wouldn’t it be better safe, owned, home? wouldn’t it look good next to ________?).  Then, once tied hands relent to that gnawing desirous consumerism (something, anything to fill the gaping black hole eroding at insides), it is delivered, fresh off polished showroom floors or dark caves of warehouse stacked shelves, to land within imprisoning walls, all shiny wrapping, delicate packing (one must be careful with new things) and clean lines.

    Her days were haunted by vague memories of what it was like to be new and untouched, untarnished. Of course it never lasts long, that purity. Dirty flaws sprout, like mould, with age - smudges of curious fingerprints, eager to press on clean surfaces to see how it feels (cold) on human skin, scars from accidents caused by reckless hands and unforgiving knocks, marks and blemishes scattered and indelible from dusty neglect and apathy that festers over time, wounds that never heal.

    Finally, after some period, appearances are deemed too dated, too worn, too homely (isn’t that a strange word?) for desired aesthetics and needs to impress outwardly (far more important than practical requirements) and what was once brand new, beloved and treasured is stored out of sight (out of mind), or handed down, sold to another more unassuming (despite being unwanted, and of no use, it must still be of some reclaimable value to somebody), if it was lucky, or if it was unlucky, it would be disposed of, along with rotten scraps, week-old trash and other things that go from treasure to junk, their remaining existence wasted, decomposing in piles without remembrance or second thought.

    She, along with the worn, dented and broken things collected in her small room were some of the more fortunate ones. She could see the journeys and tattered secrets hidden in the cracks, frowned upon and overlooked by more discerning eyes and could feel the warmth absorbed by particles that had once known love, still resonating for those (few) possessing the right sensitivity and a penchant for listening to the silence.

    This was a sanctuary; her second-hand home of new beginnings and fraying endings, where peace grew like spiderwebs amongst things forsaken and forgotten.

     
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