My Historia!

It’s one of those days. Again. A day in which every hand holds a sharp/heavy object, and every object is magnetized. A day in which you find yourself wearing the aluminium underpants. A day in which aluminium underwear resembles every other darn piece of underwear in your immediate vicinity.

A day in which “junk” suddenly becomes a very bad word. That’s the impression I’m getting. I’m no expert on the behavioral patterns of archaeologists, but I’m pretty sure that one more use of the word “junk” will result in an impromptu dissection of my cranial matter, after it’s been spread across the wall and spat on. Just a hunch.

I can’t see what the fuss is about, though. If something’s lost it’s use, and it has no compulsion to carry on remaining in existence, it’s junk. Junk goes in the nearest available bin. From there, it could be recreated as all manner of things, but until someone decides on one it stays in the bin. That’s the purpose of a bin.

The people of Mars evidently think differently. They called the six-wheeled-distant-relation-of-ROB a “piece of historical architecture”. They said it was significant to human history. A symbol of man’s spirit, of venture and enterprise.

Bit ironic, coming from a bunch of inbred fobs living in a technological paradise. They’ve lost everything this piece of junk supposedly represented. If anything, it was lonely- rusting away outside the dome, sneered upon as an imperfection. The archaeologists on Mars don’t welcome the past, they merely observe it.

I can’t say I like this piece of junk, which is currently serving as a physical barrier between myself and a very sharp collection of digging tools. It’s crusted with age, it reeks of engine fluid, and it feels like wet sandpaper. HH called it “history”.

I don’t like history, much. But I guess we can agree on one thing.

It’s always better to jump into the dark oblivion of time’s garbage disposal, than to hesitate and then forget how to feel anything at all…

…whatever the hell that means.

 

W

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