Selling Memory

Posted: June 27, 2012 in Uncategorized

The smell of unwanted possessions is a kind of dusty, wooden smell. Something that smells like an attorney’s office, or the periodicals section of a public library. Just a place where physical goods go to be ignored and slowly decay without the dissolving of the urban veins that supply and create and demand these items before demanding to get rid of them. Boxes of stuffed animals, books, milk crates filled with odds and ends, all of it destined to grow old alone, kind of like us.

But then, the difference between the things we are and the things we keep is that we are, most of us anyhow, able to move. So that we resist the notion of being hidden away and secretive. If the universe tries to put us into a box and move us out of the way until it gets ready for its next yard sale, we push out through the mountains of photographs and children’s toys and clothes and make our presence known.

Eventually though, the mountains become too tall, and our need to be seen and heard by the world gives way to a quiet¬†acquiescence that gives us time to reflect and look at the cave we’ve carved around ourselves, made of small desires fulfilled and then forgotten.

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