A valuable thing

A thing, a small knot of matter, of a few kinds of matter actually, laid in a darkness of a closed drawer and meant. The meaning was its mind, stable and proudly the same across the slowly moving through its molecules time. There was something in it, in its size that fits the hands of a man, in the texture of its surfaces that caresses the skin every time it is touched, in the forms that stirs imagination, that amazes that held a man close to it since it left a man that made it, made it from its idea that came from its parent, parents-things into the maker’s head. Blind and deaf, having only the tugging it down gravity for the sensations, it had always a man around that was holding it, glancing at it, reflecting on it, forgetting about it. This fact was making it valuable, though there are no thing that are not valuable at all: it is just that value sometimes hovers scarcely above point zero, or even goes under and then there is no a man around, only a stray one, knocking the thing down, pushing it aside without much thought about it.

Yes, it was a valuable thing. But this darkness, this silence that it was surrounded with now lasted too long even for the dead, senseless thing. No matter how great was man’s satisfaction with the idea of having the things, no matter what lively remembrances the thought about the thing was bringing with itself, no matter how stealthily the thing contributed to his views and character that grew up and are on their own now, there was a longest period of time that never had passed without man’s hands touching it, or eyes placed on it… The thing was looked for.

This cold thing was able to duplicate itself almost in a material entirety in mind of the searching for it restless owner, and if someone would let the matter into mind, the copy would be complete. As such the was only a brain there and it twisted its parts in an image of the thing and of a possible farewell.

Out there the world of man’s mind was shuttered. It demanded from its body the thing’s immediate presence, it threw its hands, walked its feet, and here, in a darkness of the drawer, the thing was heavily meaning, calling its meanings together as a sick body would calls its immune system to fight a virus of forgetfulness, for it might never reach this level of a value, has a man so close, though it couldn’t care less, or more, or at all… and very similar to the searching for it mind that busies itself with this or that things but nothing ever stops it from being a thing/mind, until body, fed up with the silly, incomprehensible in the physical spheres demands, says so.

This story contains only 478 word and it is all that it has. To qualify, it tells itself once again:

A thing, a small knot of matter, of a few kinds of matter actually, laid in a darkness of a closed drawer and meant. The meaning was its mind, stable and proudly the same across the slowly moving through its molecules time. There was something in it, in its size that fits the hands of a man, in the texture of its surfaces that caresses the skin every time it is touched, in the forms that stirs imagination, that amazes that held a man close to it since it left a man that made it, made it from its idea that came from its parent, parents-things into the maker’s head. Blind and deaf, having only the tugging it down gravity for the sensations, it had always a man around that was holding it, glancing at it, reflecting on it, forgetting about it. This fact was making it valuable, though there are no thing that are not valuable at all: it is just that value sometimes hovers scarcely above point zero, or even goes under and then there is no a man around, only a stray one, knocking the thing down, pushing it aside without much thought about it.

Yes, it was a valuable thing. But this darkness, this silence that it was surrounded with now lasted too long even for the dead, senseless thing. No matter how great was man’s satisfaction with the idea of having the things, no matter what lively remembrances the thought about the thing was bringing with itself, no matter how stealthily the thing contributed to his views and character that grew up and are on their own now, there was a longest period of time that never had passed without man’s hands touching it, or eyes placed on it… The thing was looked for.

This cold thing was able to duplicate itself almost in a material entirety in mind of the searching for it restless owner, and if someone would let the matter into mind, the copy would be complete. As such the was only a brain there and it twisted its parts in an image of the thing and of a possible farewell.

Out there the world of man’s mind was shuttered. It demanded from its body the thing’s immediate presence, it threw its hands, walked its feet, and here, in a darkness of the drawer, the thing was heavily meaning, calling its meanings together as a sick body would calls its immune system to fight a virus of forgetfulness, for it might never reach this level of a value, has a man so close, though it couldn’t care less, or more, or at all… and very similar to the searching for it mind that busies itself with this or that things but nothing ever stops it from being a thing/mind, until body, fed up with the silly, incomprehensible in the physical spheres demands, says so.

I hope they found each other. For us humans it is hard to understand what impact we have on the material things we value. But surely there is such impact. Do they antiquate slower when we around, do they fade quicker after losing us? Who knows, there is no yet a science for this.