In the accumulation of many things, man loses his mind. And often, the things.

Drawers know things that we do not.

When opened, we step through time and space. and are offered versions of ourselves we forgot.

Paperclips. Batteries. Broken toys. Keys to a life we cannot recall.

They wait in the half-light, patient as fossils.

We close it before they can cry out to reclaim them, To make them live again.

—

Amidst the chaos the things cry out to not be abandoned.

Not yet lost but receding at the speed of neglect.

We say to ourselves we will reach them.

We never do.

Like dreams they evaporate with the turn of thought.

—

Closets are different.

Closets hunger.

We feed anything we no longer wish to carry. Seasons and balls, Treasures too good to abandon.

They are doorways to unreality. Schrodinger's anything.

Inside, they exist and they do not.

A space that is larger inside than out and things may be cast in infinity.

Never step in and close the door lest the strange gravity pull you to loss.

The art of the space is that it collapses upon itself, always meaning room for more.

There is no floor. Only the bottomless stomach of the maw.

—

We sleep in comfort knowing the things cam be reclaimed at will.

But they cannot.

Not at all.

—

At times, we stand at the threshold, held in place by the thinnest filament:

and wonder who would notice if we were gone.

—

In any case, the clock is always ticking in San Dimas.

A drawer is very much like a mind.

Every drawer is both completely different and exactly the same. They’re filled with the detritus of life—things we need, but not constantly. These are objects we require just often enough to want them close by, yet some inevitably slip to the back, never to be seen again.

Sometimes these things are our dreams. But they are usually our necessities.

A closet, on the other hand, is little more than a doorway to a universe of black holes. We cast into it every unnecessary thing in our lives, with a vague hope that if we ever did need them again, we could just cast ourselves across the event horizon and spend countless ages looking for the lost thing. Our only tether to real space-time, a thin thread of love for family and friends.

These things are nearly always dreams.

In any case: the clock is always ticking in San Dimas.

#essay #musing