I admit it. I have a problem. A problem that undoubtedly stems from my
inexplicable and somewhat frustrating tendency to get attached to inanimate
objects. A problem that manifested
itself in the form of me sinking so low as to root through a garbage can in
search of what I deem as the most precious, invaluable object to have ever
graced my house. Yes, I spent a good
twenty minutes scrounging around in a mess of moldy food, dirty tissues, and
coffee grounds in search of a clock. Not
just an ordinary clock, though. Despite
the fact that this clock has lived to see 23 years in our house (24 this April,
actually) and the resultant scratches spattered across its face, this clock holds
more value than gold. It had dutifully
rested on the mantle above our fireplace for as long as I can remember, not
moving an inch until an unfortunate Christmas-related incident this year in
which my inept and careless mother knocked it down while hanging up our
stockings. Upon inspection, the clock
did not seem terribly damaged, so I carefully put it back in its proper place. Later that evening, though, as I glanced
habitually at my beloved clock, I noticed with horror that the clock still read
3:30 despite the fact that the sun had set two hours ago. In a rush of panic, I grabbed the clock back
off the mantle and examined it more closely.
The second hand. It had fallen
off. The abrupt realization that
the clock would never tick again like it had year after year, day after day,
minute after minute, time after time prompted a flood of utter devastation to
pulse through my veins. My mom, seeing the broken clock, indifferently jerked
the clock from my desperate grasp and plopped it in the trash without a second
thought. As she left, I rushed over to the garbage and,
in a fit of rage, retrieved my precious clock and stealthily snuck it up to my
room, where it sits today between a broken radio and a dysfunctional lava lamp.
I can relate strongly to this sense of panic, Victoria. Although I have never felt closely attached to a clock, I have found myself growing quite attached to other "artifacts". For instance, I find myself too often saving the ordinary leaves fallen from a tree in autum because of it's intriguing color, and dead flowers sit in my room from a year ago as I refuse to part from the significance they bring to my life. I do not see this "hoarding" as troublesome because as humans, we like to hold on to the past and the emotions that come with the memories from the objects.
ReplyDeleteI also find myself way too involved in the lives of inanimate objects. Having thrown essentially nothing away since I moved here, I view most of my clutter as an extension of myself and guard it fiercely. Last week, my mom decided to clean my room in my absence without my permission and took the liberty of throwing out some of last year's debate evidence. I felt betrayal and a weird sense of pity for the stack of papers in the trash.
ReplyDeleteI also suffer from keeping things which hold no meanings to others. Things I collect vary from bits of packaging to my childhood garments to pieces of tape. This stems from both nostalgia and my need to throw nothing out as I worry I might need it to re-purpose into a later use. My mother attacked me with a broom the other day, insisting these piles I collect remain in the trash, but I persevered and still have all of these items harbored throughout my room and studio.
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