Today I went into a few antique shops seeking out a new writing desk. My wife and I have recently moved into an apartment and have been parceling together assortments of different things to put together the puzzle pieces that work to comprise a sense of home. It's slow work. Meticulous when over scrutinized.
Antique shops are full of shit.
Or they are full of story.
And quite frankly, which one it is is largely dependent on your mood. Which leads to the obvious tie to the meta...
Life is full of shit or full of story. And, as you could've guessed, I'm convinced it's all dependent on your mood.
I've been up and down lately. Anxiously trying to find a purpose. An almost 23 year old journey frantically searching for a conduit and outlet. In turn I haven't been as present as I would like. Eyes glazing over the flowers or falling leaves or stories I'm around.
An antique shop is someones old junk and someones association with memories. Memories of love and loss and pain and prosperity.
Each moment, no matter how small, is a place to start. And each moment, no matter how small, is tied to the unfolding story that is life. Everything is, and quite frankly has to be, something more than what is simply is.