I think it’s important, every once in a while, to slow down your brain, and take it offline. To turn off the harsh light of the outside world, draw the blinds on the immediacy of the senses, and wander, back down that softly lit corridor, to the last door. The door to the room inside us where nothing is put deliberately, but simply ends up for no reason other than the fact that we can’t bring ourselves to throw it away. Useless things that don’t seem to belong anywhere else, but possess some subtle sort of charm that makes it seem cruel to just cut them loose. They’re out of the way in that back room, and they’ll never raise a fuss while we’re going about the important business of the day, but they seem content to just sit in haphazard piles, thrown on top of each other, waiting. Waiting for us to open the dusty old box, rummage through the feathery tissue paper, and remember them. And then, with a dull familiarity at first, gently take them out of the box, and turn them over in our hands a while, as the finer detail slowly emerges. Until eventually, you come to see it completely, for everything it ever was, and for what it truly, eternally is. And then you hold it up to that rich mellow light, and it shines just as brightly as it ever did, and it’s essence pierces you more deeply than it ever has. And though you thought you were done with it, it changes you a little bit, once again.

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