• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 03
Image by

Recycled Politics

There was a time when I would’ve picked you up, looked after you or put you away, where you belong. Out of sight, out of mind; tidy, the landscape unburdened from waste and humiliation.

But I walked on. I left you behind, because well, what’s the point these days? Ironic, really. A repetitive cycle of the same old shit.

Renewing faults, as if they have causes to live for.

Then, I stopped. I heard something. I turned, looking back over the wind, and there you were, asking for forgiveness. You said you needed help.
I can’t help you, I said.
‘Stop – take me with you. I’m useful and I could help you. I need a place to go. I can’t stay here, like this’
How do I know I can trust you? You could’ve belonged to a fascist right-winger who hates women and gays. And now you’re asking me to help you. Are you loyal? You seem to go wherever the wind blows. Ha ha.
The Bag hesitated for a moment, then dragged itself towards me. ‘If you never throw me away, then you’ll never need to worry about who has me in the future. I won’t betray you. I’ll never leave you’
The Bag’s slogan said THINK! DON’T THROW ME AWAY.

I thought.

I remembered when I was young, my bed being dismantled and thrown out, taken to the recycling tip up the road. No doubt it came back as a desk, a wardrobe, a fence, a bench in a graveyard, or a packet of toothpicks. Part of someone else’s home, when I still needed it to be part of mine.
Alright, come with me, I said. I won’t ever leave you but if you leave me, you’ll break my heart.

1

Recycled Politics

I allowed myself to be raw. Exposing my vulnerabilities has always landed me in trouble, but in that moment, I decided I didn’t care.

I picked up the Bag, folded it up neatly and carried on.

2