The furniture keeps disappearing on me
I had a couch once. It was the epitome of beauty. Like most things though, it had a few loose stitches and was oozing stuffing here and there. It had been through its fair share of struggle: it had been ripped and torn at the seams, stained with the blood and tears of the people whom it tried to comfort with its warm fabric.
A couch is most simply known as a place one may go to for comfort. A piece that is seemingly essential in every home. And, along those lines, this also depends on what your definition of ‘home’ is.
I found that home is not a place, but rather a feeling. A feeling of comfort and safety; an indescribable feeling of warmth and care that I only feel with a single entity. So, mayhap my couch is a person; perhaps it was my dog; maybe it is anything besides a couch.
I have seen my fair share of furniture– be it elegant, simplistic, cozy, cutting, or brilliant– but not all of them have caught my eye in the same way. I mean, in regards to the chair in which I decide to knock out on: it does not really have much of a choice as to whether I do so or not. It is not like the whole Harry Potter, “You don’t choose the wand, the wand chooses you,” kind of thing. It is more of a, “You are readily available for my comfort; I will ergo sit on you,” kind of thing.
Maybe it is just me, but on the off chance I am able to find something that brings me peace and happiness, I find it hard to let go. My memory is quite a lot worse than I would like to admit at my current age, but something like this, even I find hard to forget. In a naïve way, I hope and imagine that something so warming would stay with me forever. But, in pretense, does anything ever stay forever?
It really is such a cheesy line, cliché to an upheaving point, but, perhaps it is true- that nothing is ever really forgotten if it stays in your heart. And I do not believe that I ever took this into account until now.
