Dear Livejournal and the Adventures of Hat.
I miss you. I need to make an effort to post, to write, to spam pictures or fics or whatever. Would you kill me if I said I just hadn't had the time?
Anyway, of the less than remarkable things that've happened to me recently I'm going to tell you my thoughts about one.
So I don't like shopping, but recently I bought a hat. I haven't even got a picture of it, unremarkable as it sounds. It's black, and knitted with a small cap and a square top. It's a men's hat, but small and comfortable. It cost me £2 at a random shop in the middle of the city centre that I don't usually stop in at but looked nice that particular day. I was lucky that it suited me because usually hats don't, not even slightly. However there is one thing about this hat that makes it special, so worthy of thought, so well liked: It comes from a shop that sells things second hand.
Now I appreciate that my story isn't very interesting, but after I bought my hat I found myself thinking about the fact that my hat hadn't belonged to me. I started, more than anything, to wonder where my hat had been before. I mean, I know it's really silly, but I started creating all sorts of weird and wonderful stories about my hat (yes, I'm sad). I mean, at some point in the past, my hat could have belonged to a protester, or a struggling artist who needed a quick quid and sold it. My hat could have belonged to a scientist and could have been the first hat to travel time. My hat may have already seem more of the world than I can even dream of seeing. It could have danced down the streets of Rome, enticed women (or men, you never know) in the cafés of Paris or Madrid, been an actress in the Carnivale in Rio or Berlin, explored rainforests, conquered deserts. My hat could have walked on the edges of nations, beaches, cliffs or maybe even just sat, lonely and unloved in the closet of some teenage boy or girl until they moved and sold it. It could have belonged to a petty theif or a member of a forgotten gang. My hat could have been part of a world that I will never even dream of tasting, a world that I can't even fathom, a world no so unlike this one.
So the point of this really boring, somewhat long-winded, irrelevant story is that I feel like my hat is a stranger. A person with a million stories to tell me but no way of communicating them. So when I put my hat on, I keep getting a glimpse of what it could have been and thinking that after it leaves me (probably a shade more worn out than at present) I want it to have a thousand more stories to tell. No, not a thousand, a million. And that, I'm happy to say, brings my lengthy and pointless conclusion to a point. In the past my hat may have been many things, but for now, as stupid and foolish as I am, it is an adventure.
Anyway, of the less than remarkable things that've happened to me recently I'm going to tell you my thoughts about one.
So I don't like shopping, but recently I bought a hat. I haven't even got a picture of it, unremarkable as it sounds. It's black, and knitted with a small cap and a square top. It's a men's hat, but small and comfortable. It cost me £2 at a random shop in the middle of the city centre that I don't usually stop in at but looked nice that particular day. I was lucky that it suited me because usually hats don't, not even slightly. However there is one thing about this hat that makes it special, so worthy of thought, so well liked: It comes from a shop that sells things second hand.
Now I appreciate that my story isn't very interesting, but after I bought my hat I found myself thinking about the fact that my hat hadn't belonged to me. I started, more than anything, to wonder where my hat had been before. I mean, I know it's really silly, but I started creating all sorts of weird and wonderful stories about my hat (yes, I'm sad). I mean, at some point in the past, my hat could have belonged to a protester, or a struggling artist who needed a quick quid and sold it. My hat could have belonged to a scientist and could have been the first hat to travel time. My hat may have already seem more of the world than I can even dream of seeing. It could have danced down the streets of Rome, enticed women (or men, you never know) in the cafés of Paris or Madrid, been an actress in the Carnivale in Rio or Berlin, explored rainforests, conquered deserts. My hat could have walked on the edges of nations, beaches, cliffs or maybe even just sat, lonely and unloved in the closet of some teenage boy or girl until they moved and sold it. It could have belonged to a petty theif or a member of a forgotten gang. My hat could have been part of a world that I will never even dream of tasting, a world that I can't even fathom, a world no so unlike this one.
So the point of this really boring, somewhat long-winded, irrelevant story is that I feel like my hat is a stranger. A person with a million stories to tell me but no way of communicating them. So when I put my hat on, I keep getting a glimpse of what it could have been and thinking that after it leaves me (probably a shade more worn out than at present) I want it to have a thousand more stories to tell. No, not a thousand, a million. And that, I'm happy to say, brings my lengthy and pointless conclusion to a point. In the past my hat may have been many things, but for now, as stupid and foolish as I am, it is an adventure.