Comparing the sight of an actual organic being, this dead fish, a creature whose gross demise feeds new life, to a clean, cold, and immutable decoration, a relic from my own original organic source, my grandmother, also now gone, I cannot help but appreciate the ephemeral and inherent beauty of flesh and blood, and marvel at the innovations and marks, whether they be ecological or aesthetic, living organisms leave behind them.
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This marquisite ring is another relic, though one of a definitively different nature, and one that is a source of translated nostalgia; it belonged to my older sister, Elizabeth, and I believe, or at least I remember and have ingrained the story by this point, whether fact or fable, the ring was a gift from a former beau. The love tarnished, unable to be revived with either polish or well-intentioned effort, and, in fine metaphorical form, the ring was then crushed by the weight of some jewelry box.
It can no longer be worn on the finger, which is a true shame, but it can be slipped onto a thin chain and serves as an interesting charm. Like the ill-fated relationship, which no longer quite holds the same meaning or position along the current life trajectory for my sister, but the memory of which can still be touched and revisited, can still be gleaned from cortical recesses, the ring is a sort of morphous shadowed image of the original: a distortion.
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More relics: these thin silver bangles were recently discovered in one of my jewelry boxes, much to my own delight. They make a pleasant type of music when worn in tandem.
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