I keep this shell in the pocket of my grey hoodie. It's become a habit, like checking for phone message when I get home, or making sure the door is locked when I go out. I've been carrying it for a few months, I guess. It must have come from a beach, but I can't remember where. All I remember is that I have it as a memento, ironically. It has become an object in limbo, something with meaning, but detached from what it represents. It has transcended, perhaps. Transcended what?
The shell is a round one, like a whirlpool. Maybe it's a winkle shell or a whelk shell or something - I don't know my molluscs very well. It spirals down from the top to a large opening where the little creature would have emerged - except now there's a gaping hole in the other side of the shell too. Probably had a run in with a small rock, both caught up in the swell of an outgoing tide sometime in the late dusk, last breaths of the day. The top is broken off, too.
The spiralling and the open wounds that the shell sport seem to speak to me. I can't help but run my fingers over the broken lines as I walk around. I can't tell if it's a memento of something that happened, or of something yet to come. The shell is trapped between memory and omen, and in this paradox alone it feels like a good symbol to carry on me. A reminder that reminders themselves are fleeting and ghostly. Not much more than Opinions. Or Smells.
A house is not a trumpet, but they both thrive on empty space. A skeleton protects and supports at the same time. A mind... is a mind inside a structure, or the structure itself? “Willow twigs wrap the melon."
When you hold a conch to your ear, it is said you can hear the sound of the sea. This might be an audio illusion, or it might be that there’s some remnant of a ghost of a wave left behind in the shell, an echo that wanders and reverberates around the ridged structure forever. Believe whichever you want to believe. The sound is there.
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