Enough of the doom and gloom; everything shines brighter now. The fighting is over – no more obtuse wrestling head-on with the vague concept of threat, a suppositional enemy – and I’m finally home.
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It’s somewhat eerie how attachments to inanimate objects form with such ease; if a thing’s there for long enough, undisturbed and seemingly in its own comfortable pocket of the universe, even if it serves less than a legitimate aesthetic purpose, it simply slides past our attention into the mental sphere of untroubled acceptance. Over time, the scents of mysticism pool: existential (of the object’s presence) quantifiers – and qualifiers – become superfluously intricate, and superstition is born.
I prefer my miscellany to tell stories and ideas, rather than dictate them into existence, even if these narratives have not a bit of context.
In my billfold’s coin-pouch there sits, perpetually, a disparate pair of coins – an American penny and a Qatari dirham – their low monetary value being the only thing they have in common. They’re beyond useless, but they’re there precisely because I’ve never bothered to take them out. Perhaps subconsciously I like carrying the loot of my travels, even if they’re incurred incidentally – my attachment to regions greater and more fantastic than my native, gentrified island city glisters through the gleam of loose change.
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