on: baggage and stories;”

I have a lot of bags lying around my house. Trash bags filled with things that aren’t trash, like my clothes that my grandma didn’t know where else to put, and clear bags full of, what is transparently and in no debate of as, trash. It’s easier to keep the immediate compost out so you can tell when things are rotting. Or about to.

There’s a bag of penis confetti and a condom on my desk, buried under a pile of unopened AT&T customer service “Return Requested” envelopes, because I’ve gone paperless and have fallen for the trick thinking it was my bill, but even though the seal is ripped and the colors are exposed, there’s a chance that there may be words I need to read, like a condom should have been used or could come to use.

That’s to say, a bag of things is never just a bag of things. And thoughts are never just a singular line meant for only one journey that only has strict beginning and an end, as beginnings start when you are born and endings are when you die, because by the time you’ve finished this sentence, you’ve read my idea of how to verbalize how the world comes and starts on a circle.

But bags have their purpose, come a time and place, like the bag you carry five out of seven, or the one that solidly compacts what you want out of life for two out of seven, and then one you choose to take with you has stories in the unzipped pocket where there’s a whole history of thoughts you had forgotten or still need to add to.

Unless it’s time for a cleaning.

Then the receipts, old photos, ticket stubs, and the bra from last night come out in cluttered order, with things that get thrown out for the transactional nature to emotional value undeclared. In a ticket is a capsule to a moment past. And that yearning a past then manifests into a missile of words with answers in the chaos, target intended, predicted, or not.

A bag is just one way a story is found.

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