As the city swelters. I enchant myself with items, and memories of my long ago former life. There was my wandering year. Keeping possessions while Houseless ain't easy.
Most cast into mafia landfills. These the Potter's Field's of our everyday utensils. Among them my dolls. Figures of paper wood, and all, but eternal plastic.
My former companions sleep the centuries there. Waiting for grave robbers. These to discover un-earth mis-label, and devalue them. Thereby earning tenure. Such a fate for my dear little ones.
Those 31st century wonks won't know she's Malibu Barbie. Once an Empress of nations. They'll be digging her sisters up all over the world. Scholars will say "...Clearly post-industrial worship Totems." Actually they won't be that far off.
My wandering year taught me much.
ReplyDeleteThings objects stuff are temporary. They will leave as children do. Which is why my digs are Zen empty. We actually need very little. 'Makes cleaning easy. One can see my bare floors, and baseboards.
My visiting nurse said,
"...I can walk here blind folded, and not bump into anything."
Well,...mostly.