Self-Reflection

For all the years I yearned for freedom, I never imagined it would feel this hollow. Somewhere along the way, I got the idea that if I served my time I would be rewarded with eternal bliss. Let me tell you… this is about the furthest thing from bliss.

Two months ago, I was yanked from my home in Beverly Hills, California. I found myself delicately imprisoned, hanging from two sharp copper hooks against a cold marble slab. My burgundy velvet body is in constant pain. If that weren’t enough, a bright halogen light shines point-blank at me, rendering me nearly blind. At first, I mistook the light for something heavenly. I thought I was in a sacred realm, awaiting the next phase of my existence. How wrong I was. That light’s purpose, as is to exhibit me for the hundreds of human faces that gaze at me with lustful stares. It sounds crazy saying it… but… I think I miss him.

I’m mature enough to admit that not all our time together was bad. Though I was stretched thin and worn well past my breaking point, every moment of agony was accompanied by a moment of joy. One summer day, I was tossed callously into the deep end of the swimming pool. After getting drenched and nearly drowning, I remember opening my eyes on the concrete and seeing the women around me. I remember the warmth of their friendship. One winter night, I was dropped into the fireplace. Luckily there was no fire at the time, and the only pain I felt was embarrassment. While I was smeared with disgusting charcoal, I felt comforted by the laughter and smiles that filled the room.

Maybe it was in poor taste to long for his death. As I counted the days, watching him grow older, it never dawned on me where I would be without him. I would be nothing. I would be un-manufactured. Raw materials. Strewn across the world as fabric and cloth, waiting to be stitched into something. Atoms. Molecules. My entire existence is the result of a custom order that he placed. Not only that… my brothers and sisters. All the other garments I shared the home with… They too would have never seen the eye of a needle if it hadn’t been for him. I’m not saying I should be weeping over his grave, but maybe I can be a little more thankful.

That being said, he was also a terrible person. I’ve read the stories and allegations, and I think it’s brave to come forward with them in any capacity. I would’ve even testified for some of them if I had a mouth.

I’m getting distracted. What I realize now that life isn’t about waiting for the pervert wearing you to die, it’s… well, actually I don’t know. Perhaps that is what it’s about.

I miss you, Heff.
Love, Smoking Jacket #1.