Imaginary Pillows

In the middle of typing, I looked up and took inventory on a dresser reminiscent of a piece of furniture my Grandmother owned, from 1918. It’s made of dark wood, and the salesperson told me it was distressed, which was enough for me to bring it home.

It has an open space whose purpose I’m unsure about, but several books sleep there, taking turns with newcomers and retirees, each title restful and reminding me which dreams took trains to nostalgia instead of reality.

A large rock salt lamp sits in its left corner because I read something long ago about the healing properties of rock, salt, and light in one’s environment, but now I wonder if someone took the idea too literally because I lick it more often than I turn it on, and can’t tell which if any of my properties are healed.

A miniature black iron cauldron sits on the right-hand corner, because the smoke shop was out of incense holders, and at the time, it was a novel purchase. It’s filled with fine sand, and hosts the burning of at least ten incense sticks a day. It’s the sturdiest of all the holders, and although it occasionally reminds me of witches, it’s remained.

In the middle is a television, which doesn’t get much use. It’s become the one on one entertainment sharing hub, for any child prone to request that type of mommy-and-me only time. It’s at least five years old and still has the stickers on the front.

In front of the television is a ceramic unicorn a child painted for me and named Mom. Her head is tilted as if she’s on her way somewhere, and when you walk past her, her eyes seem to follow. She’s not spooky at all.

Next to her is a journal, filled with notes and thoughts, some important, and some not. I will temporarily lose that journal and probably cry about it one day in frantic search of a particular word, passphrase, appointment date, or address. Sometimes I put things where they belong, but words seem to belong everywhere.

The last thing on the dresser is a bottle of vitamins, still unopened, and reminding me that health isn’t in a bottle, even though I habitually return to see if maybe, just maybe, it arrived.

These things are almost a complete account of my life, at least from my current typing perspective. I’m inclined to ask myself if anything is missing, or consider like John Milton, how my light is spent. I suppose nothing is missing that can’t be accounted for elsewhere, and I’m guessing my light must rest in places that don’t involve material possessions, or at least I hope so.

Those questions lead me to ask how my darkness is spent. If I’m honest, it’s probably spent one too many instances reading the sleeping spines of nostalgia and running from a unicorn fashioned in my likeness, minus the corn, of course.

Imagine trying to find a pillow for a unicorn head!

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