Today, I moved house. And a grueling, hideous experience it was. Testament, however, to the sustaining power of a single flapjack (lunch. Or was it - strictly speaking - breakfast? Hell, let's call it brunch and be done, eh?)
What a great deal of burdensome items one acquires, eh? "Burdensome", there, becomes depressingly literal when one is lugging them back and forth from one side of the town to another.
But it's also (potentially all the more depressingly, of course) metaphorical.
In an old notebook, the young intellectual hooligan had scrawled some tiresome load of gibberish. One piece of faint lucidity, though, was a reference to language in the mind of a child. I'd focused on the word 'fat'. And had hearkened back (in typically reactive manner) to a time, in one's youth, at which the word 'fat' was pure, fascinating, absolutely fresh and evocative.
Before it became dulled and overlaid with myriad contexts, over- (and under-) tones, associations ... and blunted by familiarity. Until what was once a source of childish glee and fascination (oh, for I was a gleeful and fascinated child) became just a normal, plain, dull old word.
Physical possessions can be like words. Some of them so familiar and frequently seen and used that they lose whatever resonance (man) they might orginally have produced. But others - especially the ones crammed down behind chests of drawers, or hidden in pockets of seldom-worn coats (exhibit A: one gig ticket; one business-card from an expensive restaurant) - well, boy, do they resonate.