Last night, at 1 am I wrote this after being hopped up on allergy meds and a couple beers. It may not make sense, be really meaningful, or well written, but I think it sums up my life and why sometimes I look like a poor homeless girl with a broken cell phone. I have little, if any, desire to impress people, especially with material objects.
I was obsessed with newness, there was a savory shine to it. A two car garage, where I stuffed my new car into. A new computer for my freshly updated office space that overlooked a backyard full of obscure plants. New gadgets, a PDA that I blew hundreds of dollars on because I felt that I needed it. A new cell phone that had to be the best at that time. My closet had to be stuffed with new shoes and clothes. I would only buy new expensive hair products and makeup. New, new, new, expensive, expensive, expensive. The more I had, the more I wanted.
By 26, things had changed. I watched as people entered and exited my life. The death of my Grandparents, the instability of my father's health, the wavering of an unfulfilled relationship had taken a toll. The home, the property that I had built, that I had put everything into seemed pointless. I had sat in that shell, I had put all my energy, all of this wasted energy into these things, these objects and I watched the people exit, leaving behind useless items. I watched them move on, quickly and suddenly, leaving a mess of wasted objects behind.
My grandparents passed away a few years after the purchase of my home. I remember going into their abandoned house. Their remnants, their belongings, were divided into rooms. My family and I were allowed to come in and take whatever we wanted as little mementos of what they once were, things they had once coveted. Things that they felt defined them. Things that we felt defined them. Dishes strewn about the kitchen, linens on the dining room floor, an old couch I spent much of my childhood sleeping on. Little trinkets and treasures were stuffed into boxes, which were packed away only to be sold at an auction the next day. What did it mean?
Inside one of the boxes filled with my Grandma's china, I found a white ceramic cup labeled "50th Anniversary", written in silver. It sat on one of the shelves on my dining room hutch. It just sat there. It didn't bring me closer to my Grandma, it didn't house her spirit, and no matter how many times my fingers graced the rim of that cup, she did not come back.
I can't find myself in objects. I can't find others in objects. I can't be someone through something. Maybe it's the buddhist, the hippie, the spiritual part of me that believes you can't define yourself through what you have. I have learned that each possession that I own at this point in my life has a purpose to serve, anything beyond that is wasteful. My car needs to get me from point A to Z. My clothes need to keep me either warm or cool. My hair looks pretty good natural and not dyed or relaxed. My shoes need to protect my feet. My home needs to protect me from the elements. I could probably survive on one cup, one dish, and a fork.
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