I rent a room in a shared house. In one of the showers is a product that someone I once loved used to buy.
I started thinking about all of the everyday items that have more meaning now, purely because I associate them with someone.
And I decided that would be the basis of a Medium post, because I miss writing, and lists are easy.
Brake pads.
E-cigarettes.
Acorns.
The final track on Transatlanticism.
Camembert.
Disposable barbecues.
Red dresses.
Pesto.
My notebook with lots of half-hung Hangmen in.
Silver Peugeots made in 2005.
Beachfront lights in winter.
Ikea blankets.
I miss writing purely for me. I write for my clients — their social media and press releases and publications and blogs — but never for me.
Writing has an additional meaning, which is somehow simultaneously lesser and greater. Now, I don’t write unless I’m paid to. That was never the meaning that I wanted to be attributed to the thoughts I translate into sentences.
I don’t want all of my words to come attached to invoices.
When you love someone or something (like a person, or the practice of writing), associated everyday items become symbols. The mundane becomes meaningful.
Once they, or you, or time, has taken that love, when — or to where — does the significance go?
Is it as simple as practicing a new definition?
