what if our perfect little emotional containers were actually Things made of glass and brass and steel and gold? what if, as we ignored and repressed and insisted, they stacked up and multiplied making us all hoarders, forcing us to deal with our Things or be evicted?
would we be happier?
happiness would come in bottomless stainless steel, always cool and smooth. jealousy, a cast iron skillet, untouchable, always four hundred degrees. sadness would be enormous and chemical, bringing hot acidic tears to the eyes of the beholder.
regret would be the largest. a cauldron, a barricade, a priceless relic surrounded by barbed wire. mourning would be made of sand, slipping through your fingers and slowly, gently making its way to the sea.
if our things were Things, we’d wear them like badges. maybe we’d be more careful with each other. maybe we’d be more selective when choosing the people we love. there would be less mystery and more recognition. we’d look for respect (a thick soft rug) and humility (a deep pitcher made of sea glass).
we’d look for hope (crystal champagne flutes): we’d have closets full of them, shelves upon shelves upon shelves. when one hope is dashed we’d have a dozen more waiting to take their place. we’d clear the shelves and restock. we’d move forward.