Wayward thoughts - Lugging it
I don’t unpack easily.
Bags wait to be opened.
Sometimes it takes hours. Days. Weeks. I don’t know what I have brought back. What had I taken? What have I left behind? I find a piece of paper. A receipt. Faded. I can barely read the store name, the amount, the purchase. A white slip of something I have but do not know about. Or do not care. The bag’s outer draw’s zip latch has broken. I use my nail to unzip. It hurts. Persistence pushes its way. There lies a plastic massager. It is broken. Like the zip latch. And now my nail.
Bags. The smell of old clothes and the smell of new clothes mesh with the smell of new fragrances. I want to lend them my sweat, make them human. It isn't humid enough. Another bag. Melting chocolate. I open one wrapper and lick the gooey stuff that has spilled out. My lips are brown like autumn. Bags carry seasons. In a draw deep inside are a few papers. Sketches drawn with ballpoint pen. Notes written about what a place means, what people mean, what things mean, what I mean to the places, to the people, to the things. Now in their scrunched-up form it is all meaningless.
Bags. With thick wheels that glide on shiny floors. If they are too heavy, they topple over; mine do even if they are light. I cannot handle smooth gliding. I like to pause. I like wheels that make a slight noise so that I know they are going somewhere, we are going somewhere. These bags make things look easy when they are not.
Then I look for my essentials. After days I remember essentials. Among them is a hair clip with a few strands of hair trapped. The hair looks different. It feels like deceit of oneself by oneself.
Bags. They should remain locked.