Sometimes I wonder what life would look like from the inside of a handbag. Always, always seeing a hand reach in, reach out. Always to be bumped along, the hard mass it rests against, or to dangle haphazardly in air.
I should think it would be a fearsome task, a fearsome business, always locked away in pockets and pouches, all of varying sizes. Consumed in the darkness, and then all goes still, just intermittent jostling. And nothing is heard but the jabbering up ahead. Some items may be picked up, while the bag lays silent on the ground, the chair, the table, and the hand goes in and out, much of the same items in, and out. Some of those items taken out and left out, breathing, observing their surroundings rather than the blindfold of the red, the brown, the black, the yellow, the smell masked by leather, the feel of cotton, suede, canvas, rough and soft alike. And yet there are the items that never leave, the items that pile up endlessly. Waiting, waiting, wondering if they have indeed been forgotten. And though they are felt, in the tireless searching, incessant searching at the worst possible moments. They are never seen, crumpled, shredded, some may have wonderful use, but aren’t as useful as other items and so they lay.
They wonder, they forget, they are felt, until one day they are all liberated they see the world around them for the first time, watch as their neighbors are in the same expanse, and for the first time in ages finally seeing the outside of the bag. Then the forgotten items are separated, felt, looked at, their use, they feel their use again, they are seen, they are loved. Until the strange bin comes and they spend the rest of their days in the mask of another bag.
Yes, such is the life inside the handbag, until the handbag is thrown to the closet, and the next one is filled with useless memories that will be forgotten again.
Created: Mar 04, 2011Rochelle Boucher Document Media