I understand the appeal of minimalism, in theory. I also understand that our society tells me that the solution to anything that’s wrong is to buy some material good to fix it. I also understand that having lots of objects does not actually equate to happiness.
And yet, my dream home is one that’s full of trinkets. Books, pretty rocks, assorted knickknacks that call to me for one reason or another. Something about that kind of space feels more like home to me than a space that’s clear and open. Maybe it’s growing up without a lot to go around that encouraged me to be this way, or maybe it’s just that part of me that’s drawn to stories about old witches in cottages and treasure hunters. Do I need these things? No, of course not. Is it bad to want them anyway?
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) from Latin omnium for “of all things” and a feigned Latin form of the English word “gather”
A collection of miscellaneous objects.
She’s not sure if the antique gun will fire, but even a nonfunctioning gun is a threat.
“Give it back,” she says. The gun trembles, lit by lightning.
“Give what back?” The man sweeps an arm towards his collected objects: books, stones, clocks. “As you see, I have many things. They are all purchased legally, unlike that gun.”
“It’s not yours,” she says. “You can’t sell things that don’t belong to you.”
He smiles. “Watch me.”
A crack—thunder or gunfire, it’s impossible to say. Someone hurries out, an object concealed under their cloak; surreptitious, even if no crime was committed.