Everything in the world has a story, its own memories that last forever. Some are beautiful or simplistic; others are full of pain and suffering. Whether a story is the history of a child’s toy or the long remembrances of a tree, they both exist, and can be seen by those with a sight.
Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by a story, but I keep it all the same. When books and words fail to release me from the pressures of life, stories are there; pictures and feeling from other times and places wash over my mind until I am carried away by the memories.
People take one look at the front hall of my house and see piles of what seems to be random junk. When they mock me and call me a pack-rat, I laugh and know that they have no idea. The front rooms in my home are the least cluttered, the least likely to distract me from my friends. My cousin, who has seen the rest of my house, usually asks me about the stories, why I have kept each object. These stories I have collected my whole life pull at my mind, begging to be seen and understood, to be shared and treasured.
There is one story I have yet to tell, one that is both frustrating and delicious at the same time. I often stare at the host object, wondering at its sheer simplicity. Every time I see it, I feel a gaping hole in my senses and the constant streams of tales into my head all stop. I feel blinded when this happens, but also there is a strange sort of relief that I don’t quite understand. For though I always see the story of an object, when I look at this one there is nothing, not even a flicker of the productive machinery that manufactured it. My head is at rest, and I see the thing as others do, not as a memory but as a child’s toy. I can look at it and think “that’s a neon yellow toy lantern”, instead of seeing a child’s hands pick it up and watching the look of glee on their face as they realize it lights up. It may seem useless to some, but to me it represents the idea that one day, I might not have to struggle against the tide of memories from every object I pass.
This both terrifies me and fills me with hope, and I look at the lantern every day.
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I really had no clue what to do with this one, so I decided that the lantern wouldn't be the primary focus, though it is a secondary one.
I also restrained myself from using dialogue here, which was a harrowing experience
