Flea markets.

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And in a dark-filled corner was a real live memory
Like a genie in a dusty cardboard packing box
Faded dress and brittle paper, white wax candle,
Mottled photos, brown and sepia, yellowing socks.

Flea markets all over the world have almost always exactly the same stuff, just with minor culturally-different tweaks. Always, the boxes of old vinyls, stacks of watched DVDs, old and strange cutlery and flatware, T-shirts advertising which rock concerts you or your adult children once went to. Like a life, a little era, a small portion of an existence finished, over and cleared out– all the emotion, the sounds and noises, the images, faded and dry and stored in the attic, on sale to find new meaning, purpose, and breath.

I’m grateful for flea markets.

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Send me sunshine, light and love! :) Constructive criticism is also welcome.

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