Dearest Dustbin,
Of all things adorning my room, my favourite is you. And that is the whole and sole truth. I remember the intense caution that went in your selection, followed by the immense pride in your beautility. You were got down from one of the kitchen shelves where you sat pretty in your delicate woody weaves, strong and happy. I put a paper bag around you so that the 'dust' would not amalgamate. Since then you have been the confederation of conspiracies. The net into which I basket the shreds of my emotional outbursts and or deviations.
Dustbin. Your name generates a sense of discernment for the unused, a feeling of neglect. Normally plastic in your approach, I love the life you have in your being in my room. Integral and incessant. I love it that you demand your respect in the manner you stand tall, and pretty. And useful. In fact, the daily pat that goes to clean you makes you the most dust free object here in my room.
You are the stoic sanity to my oscillating insanity. You teach me tolerance in each of those times I practice intolerance. Your opposing dimension complements mine. Each time I discard something into you, the indulgence with which you accept it is infinitely poignant.
The fragments that go into you complete me. I like to see them torn, apart, and assembled in you as a memory of things which could ruin me, but could not. Your cradling them into a coffin gives me a new birth.
Your opening speaks for the silence which shuts me.
Sincerely yours,
K.
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