Sold leather sofa today and was quite disillusioned about the prospect of the human condition where emotions are attached to inanimate objects. Seems like every item in my surroundings is for sale. The distasteful and loud blue bamboo pot that holds the symbolic good luck charm given to me when I started my first business sits among other dusty, priceless items that are reduced to sell quickly. Too quickly for me to place a true and meaningful value on what it’s worth to me.
Items purchased after countless, exhausting shopping hours now reduced to bargain basement merchandise slated to put any department store out of business. It brings me little comfort knowing that my priceless treasures will transition from my impeccable care to that of a cold and indifferent stranger. How can one negate personal resentment and bitterness when one’s personal history is for sale?
Sold today is the bedroom set, the first one I owned outright and of the measurable quality that a student budget could afford while scrapping by on student loans and cheap ramon noodle. It has sentimental value and meaningful discussion only to those who had to survive on 1 and a half meal a day just so there would be enough money for one evening out on the weekend. Food or going out? Think cheap Vodka. Gone now are the days where you can point to the bedroom set and tell your fellow constituents that this was your accomplishment after years of starvation and haphazard nights on nasty, anonymous sofas. That this was what all the pain and suffering was about. Unfortunately, this history was sold today.
Days of shopping for that perfect piece of green furniture disappeared in a few short hours after some disheveled bloke came along and offered a fraction of what the thing holds in history, experience, and love. Hours of arguing with Hubby about the subtle shades of green in the cushion, the precise configuration of the sofa, and the obnoxious price, only to be reduced to a few Ben Franklins in the pocket. On his way out, the disoriented bloke casually mentioned that this fluffy feather downed green furniture, which was purchased with the utmost consideration and meticulous thought process, will probably be his dog’s bed.
Gone are the things that Hubby hoarded over the years, including the countless “practical and useful” computer books and 50,000 plus computer cables and hardware. Gone is the crappy, dysfunctional phone that disconnects indiscriminately and forces you to communicate in a pitch higher than a natural person should ever be legally allowed. Gone are the mismatched knives that had no paired forks, spoons with no siblings, and chop sticks with no twins.
Gone are the things that represent years of history. Things that hold a little history of who you are based on where you’ve traveled, what you’ve accomplished, and the experiences which makes you an interesting person.
As I look around and assess the ubiquitous emptiness, I heard a faint but distinct sound in the background. A door closing.
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