ornament

I don't know much, but I do know how to collect. Collect items of worth? That's debatable. One anemic woman's treasure is another woman's trash. All of the so-called treasures of my past have become trash of my present. Well, some of that trash is recyclable. Thank goodness. And thank goodness I spelled "recyclable" correctly on not my third try, but on my FIRST. I am moving up in this world! In this imaginary world of correct spelling. Nobody spells correctly on their own anymore. Independent spelling? No thanks, not for us.

But back to my trash. I have amassed bags full of cheap jewelry from cheap mall stores, which is entirely baffling to me because a) I don't like jewelry and b) I don't like malls. Guess I was lured in by the cheapness. <--- That could be a true statement for many facets of my life. The jewelry is tarnished and broken, most of it anyway. It doesn't SPEAK TO MY SOUL. It doesn't speak at all. It is an inanimate object, desiring of no love, no anything. Its feelings will not be hurt if I decide to donate it. Where will my donation end up? West Africa? Does anyone in Africa need comically over-sized hoop earrings? What about local band buttons? I can just see women walking around in Nigeria sporting Weak Men and Mathematics Et Cetera pins. I hope this happens. I hope the Universe is on my side with this.

The useless jewelry comes with useful memories. Useful in the sense that it is a reminder of who I do not wish to be. Yes yes, I honor my past and am appreciative of where it has lead me and the lessons I have learned along the way, buuuut... But I was wrapped up in all the wrong things/people and was mostly concerned with anything beginning and ending with me me me. Maybe I can just blame my age. Maybe I can just blame other people. Maybe both of those things are too easy. It's too easy to brush the uncomfortable aside and place the blame on somebody or something else. I believe what I am beginning to realize, finally finally finally, is that I must take responsibility for my own actions. Shocking discovery, I know.

So thank you, little broken locket and guitar pick earrings. Thank you for being the thread that lead me back into my past, a past in which I own so that it doesn't end up owning me. It is a past I take responsibility for, at least eventually, and a past I will gladly leave behind with the dust mites and mood rings. Now I can let go and go forward. Now I can bravely bare my skin without hiding it behind layers of fake gold and rashes. Now I can focus on now.