The modern age is oft set on attaching our identities to objects. The things we own, the things we buy, what we can and can’t afford, and what that says about us to the culture as a whole. Objects act as our flags of wealth, identifiers. Find your aesthetic, your wardrobe staples, decorate in farmhouse chic or kitschy maximalism — but rarely are these things attached to us. Not really. Maybe in another age your favorite dress would have been one you mended a thousand times yourself, embroidered the details on the cuffs and collar yourself. If you lost that in a fire, it’d hurt a bit more than losing the polyester Forever21 thing you picked up on sale for $5.50.
I suppose that’s why, when I think of losing all my possessions spontaneously, I only care about a few things off the top of my head. A painting my friend made me in high school, the bobcat skull I found in the woods, the ebony wood animals from my late great aunt’s trips to Kenya, the cardigan I’m currently working on crocheting. Most of the other stuff, even though its objectively important to me for the sake of transportation, or comfort, or work, fades into the background for the few objects that feel the most important.
The things I’d genuinely weep for, like the blankets my great grandmother made, that can only be repaired, are objectively useless. They do nothing to up my societal status, they will not get me to work, they are worth no money to anyone looking upon them but myself. I’m confronted by the fact that the things I’d save in a fire are the most sentimental. They have value only to me, signal only to me the history of my family and the relationships I cherish. That history and those relationships may exist without the objects, but I’d still mourn them like I’d mourn a lost friend for all the time and memories they represent.
from the pen of icarus blake 
Leave a comment