The writings of
January 10, 2021
We are consumers, in the modern cacophony of things and stuff. We buy, and buy, and devour the mundane digressions, and discard the seemingly undesired that is ultimately labeled as trash. And trash undesirable, but not altogether worthless.
I knew a man who knew trash could be treasure. He built a palace from the discarded in the middle of a junkyard. Three stories high, with a basement. Nothing of the foundation, the walls, the roof, or within was used if it wasn’t thrown away.
This man, a crazy old man they said, was more than just an eccentric visionary. An exceptional engineer, true. A skilled builder, yes. He also could hear the souls of the previous owners. Their trash held memories, and secrets, the things and stuff that got to the core of the impetus. Their sadness. Their despair. Their wanting for the essence that is supposed to be embodied in those superficial acquisitions.
Buy, consume, feel nothing.