Of Little Consequence
I’m surrounded by things. Horror things. Toys and figures, promotional items and books, televisions, movies, video games, and pictures. Stuff.
I remember a time when I deluded myself into thinking I could abandon all worldly possessions in pursuit of a simpler lifestyle. I’d like to tell you I reached that conclusion through the careful study of Buddhism, but more likely I watched Fight Club a few too many times. It’s possible I also read On the Road and misunderstood the point. Or else I totally got it, which is maybe worse.
I remember a time when I’d go hiking every day, write every afternoon, and read every night. I was clueless to the goings-on of the internet and television. My world was made up of thought and the manifestations thereof. Some were women with long necks, others creatures of haunted origins, others still restructured instances of me.
I remember when I had more future than past.
I remember when I could remember.
Nostalgia is fucked up.
What I remember most is everything I forgot. I think back to the long stretches of erased film, and I know there were pictures there once. I know there was more to this life that is 34 years old but feels only weeks young.
The stuff, I’ve finally discovered, serves its purpose. These things I collect, the toys, the pictures, the posters, the ticket stubs: they help mark the passage of time. They help me remember. They assist in the reconstruction of my life.
A rich inner life is paramount to a meaningful existence, but one should not abandon the world’s physical gifts. All that stuff that can weigh us down, it has its place.
Or else I’m full of shit.