Objets Trouvés

“Attachment is the great fabricator of illusions; reality can be obtained only by someone who is detached. ”

― Simone Weil

I always wanted to keep a diary—my diary, a phrase so beautifully feminine and pristine. A keepsake I could carry between my sweaty palm and left hip, twirling the silk page marker around my finger with the elegance of an aerial dancer spinning in silks. A book to announce to the world, I have secrets to keep. I could whisper sweet nothings to the page by making the roller ball pen dance on paper, blessing no one else with my words but my own eyes. My local Barnes & Noble would witness a giddy Olivia, running her fingers down the spines of books resting on the rack, smelling the fresh odor of pressed pages, and inhaling the aroma of possibilities.

I sat down to write that first night. I laid the body of the book in all of its beauty on my bedside table, but I was without words. I had been lost in the fantasies of flipping through pages of documented secrets so much that only when I began did I realize I had none to write. It was the lack of meaningful content that stood in the way of the romance between me and my diary. Not even I wanted to read about my daily dinners or occasional disputes with peers. I wanted the book to push me in ways of thought. I somehow believed the bound pages before me could facilitate discoveries about what brought me here, who I was in my past life, or what a soul is. My mind still wandered, but without pen in hand.

My hold on the diary loosened. Pressing the book into my chest as I traveled through classrooms, I felt only its emptiness seep into me. It only took a week for my newly purchased book to find its way to the corner of my bedroom, buried under bundles of clothing and toy trinkets.

I tried to keep a locket once. It seemed to be the only thing missing in between my collar bones. I bought a golden heart-shaped pendant with a delicate matching chain, with hopes that it would provide comfort and protection from pain. I pictured it around my neck five years from now—a grown and mature version of me, accompanied by the necklace through every experience. It would sit atop the indentation of my lower neck, offering its warmth. During the purchase, digging for remaining quarters in my quaint wallet, I thought, this doesn’t feel special enough. Holding the locket, I searched my mind and collected memories for a meaning to attach to the dangling piece of metal between my fingers.

I never ended up putting a photo inside. I didn’t even have a photo in mind; a self-portrait seemed conceited and yet an ancestor felt forced. The slot was tiny, too. It required specific measurements to be made, and that was a task I just never got around to doing. I’m sure by now it has slipped into the pitted pockets of my dresser drawers, collecting dust and marking its grave with abandonment.

The cycle repeated once again when my grandfather took me to a jeweler one year. Squirming in the seat of the Subaru, I listened to him tell me his first experience with God. He described his descent into depression and his faith in the holy spirit, a faith he believed I could benefit from. In his eyes, I was now wise enough for a cross to adorn my neck, where I thought my now-lost locket would’ve lain. I imagined a spiritual life to be healing, and somehow this necklace would ignite one of my own. It was a chance to make a connection with something greater, through glorified gold jewelry. I browsed through various religious pendants until deciding upon a gold wire-wrapped cross. I held it in my hand that day, letting it drape across my palm.

The attachment I felt to the necklace diminished as fast as it was fabricated. I must have forgotten I was not religious.

I seem to keep searching for a manifestation of sentiment. The objects I own are victim to my routine of constructing the story of its value and inserting an astronomical meaning to its existence in my life. Still, my pursuit is fruitless, as each attempt I made at finding an object to attach to was artificial and thus, temporary in its hold on my heart. I see the nature of this tendency and yet something within me still seeks the story of the beloved diary, or cherished heirloom locket, or sacred cross.

Not long ago, I found myself in an antique store. I stood amidst overpiled shelves and oak armoires. My soul ached from heartbreak the week before. But as I rummaged through 1900 film photographs, with the sound of my peers cheering about their finds from behind me, I breathed in serenity. In that moment, I came across a pink sapphire stone ring banded by silver. It radiated empowerment, strength, happiness. Placed graciously around my index finger, its offerings were contagious. Maybe the sincerity and solitude of this finding will result in an authentic attachment to the adornment. Maybe this stone band is playing its part in the mending of my heart and for that, I will be grateful. Or maybe I’ll just lose it.