Compassionate Theory of Everything

Halfpoem for Hoarders

Look left, and you will see assorted shapes amid haphazard shimmering metal and gleaming arcs of glass. Snippets of dull thread hang between these things. Behind the bright bits lurk other shapes.

The one thing you will not see in this room, is space.

Look right, and you will see a dark box. It sits on many colors of boxes. On top of each box will be an object. Boxes provide “horizontal space” which must be filled. A field of dissimilar things descends into a valley of variegated stuff.

Look any direction your head can turn, and you will find more. Much more. Some of it is old. All of it is different.

Now, breathe in.

Is your allergy to space hereditary, or do you just need to find the right object? Can you find the real thing, the thing that means something to you? The surface cradled by rough hands? Memory glints. The form of the real thing reaches for light. Passion struggles in shadows.

On top of that passion sits an object. Beside it, is an item. A thing sits in front and obscures its view. Below your passion, is a valuable gadget that needs only to be fixed.

All of these things have “purpose.”

Each and every object is a symbol of waiting purpose, standing patient. On one day, a day out of all the others, each object could find a purpose.

Look at the stack, the sea. Choose any item from the pile.

This one goes in the trash! Force yourself! Use your hand and lift it up.

Of course, when held up to the light reflected in the mind’s eye – this one cannot be let go. Here it is, and I have found it! Cling to the use it will have one day. Someday. Each object has its use, in the mind.

Look at how nicely the atoms fit together. See how they make plane and angle of this physical thing. Does this shape have meaning?

Meaning must be manufactured, and the brain is a factory. The mind machines meaning out of any material supplied.

Where was this purchased? Zzzzt! What does it do? Brrrap! Could its shape be useful in another way? Ka-chink!

How much did I pay for it? (a glossy paint is sprayed over this now-priceless widget)

Somewhere in the forever day of the mind, the purpose of every object will come.

In decades, the imagination will be ash.

It will take centuries for the object to be carried away as dust.

The mind knows this object has purpose, and must be protected from the wind. Will you allow it?

Now breathe.

Can there be open area? Is it safe?

Can there be breadth and width, a distance between points?

Is it safe in a wide flat space, or must you be wrapped in stacks?

Is a house a home for stuff or living?

Is there headroom for thought and headway for motion here?

Reach far, stretch outward – is this house a home? A place to relax the soul?

What if the width had no objects within – could you fill it with you?

If a stretch of wall did not grab at the eye with clutches of color, where would your attention drift and travel?

There is a space for you. The space is filled with open breeze that sweeps the room. Peace blows between an open door and a wall. A volume of nonentity expands.

A place blank and white and open spreads its arms and expands for you. It is a place where minds stretch and souls may breathe.

It can be made from the cherished one. Yet not the useful two. This you is built from the unstacked.

Where naught is caught on snags of nothing, and the soul is untugged.

This is the place where the heart expands.

Breathe in this clear space.

 

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