Why oh why am I so drawn towards the materials at hand? What of my lead glazed pottery of my highschool days? What of the crystals received from bound lovers? What of a tarot deck glazed with the memories of spilt drinks and ashed cigarettes? What of the fired ceramic necklace I wear to remind me of distant close friends?
These objects, these known motifs, they link to auras held within.
Why do I turn to these items of fixation?
Perhaps while my body ages, while my cells die and my form adapts, these objects remain true like testaments of old, waiting for life to be breathed into them. They are constants and that is sacred for while I am sacred I am not constant. I live in the depleting ether of life's journey, a journey that knows only inertia and knows only change. These items surround me like the treasures of royal tombs. They extend my very essence and enhance it with the memories bound to my soul.
These items are sacred to me.
Saintly and powerful they are, relics to me but not the masses.
A tomb of my own, items set into decorative motion, items never sitting passive.
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