Insignificant Things
It doesn't seem to me that only flesh and blood hold a thing such as a life force. Whatever this energy that carries our meat bags around truly is, it must also inhabit things that are by our definition inanimate. Things that are both small and that have towered over us for ages.
I was small then, when I felt an attachment to insignificant things. Bits of shoelace and sheets that I wrapped around me like armor. It's was very lucky of us to be surround by small plastic toys and aging books. These things had true meaning in them. Not simply for the words the books held but for their placement as bricks in my ever growing tower of knowledge.
Where books had their dragons, the plastic toys had their true personas played out in derivatives of that learned fiction. Wars would be played out under the legs of my bed frame. Stories constructed deep in innocent imagination, magic running straight from my flesh to their fragile plastic figures.
These insignificant things somehow acted as both my creations and parts of my core self at the same time. The very dirt I ran on as a child, the aged single walled constructed house, and the pot hole littered easement are threaded into something that looks like my home, but feels like a memory.
Time has now passed and though the plastic toys are gone they still feel alive. It may just be an overwhelming imagination, but I still touch my car as if it was my living stead. I still have the toy armies in my head fighting for innocent truths.
In this perishable world where time consumes all things, are we not to be obliterated as well? Creatures of bleeding, aging, blasphemous power, will we not be consumed by time until nothing is left. As it is so, I hope to find all my things whatever or wherever is next. They are parts of me, and where ever they end up, I sense I will follow.