Trash or Treasure (and P.S. Capitalism Lied)

“Capitalism is disgusted by those whose happiness is not a result of buying … or selling.”

― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

I had a boyfriend, not all too long ago. He had pushed me too far, abused me in more ways than one and I had checked myself in a psychiatric hospital. Split. And upon my return, he sought me out, sorrow in his heart and tears in eyes, pleading that I give him another chance.

And I did.

And when he moved into a new makeshift of a home, I bestowed upon him gifts, belongings of mine, treasured, to truly make his new dwelling feel like a home.

Among them were a set of wooden wind chimes gifted to me by a dear friend... And a collage portrait I had made as an art student - precious to me as I had otherwise since lost my entire portfolio...

A wonky legged furry small donkey gifted to me by an old Irish widow I used to visit for company since his wife Valerie had passed... A gem of a gentleman.

A rose quartz pendant on a leather strap to wear around his neck for the gift of self love... A birthday present I had splurged a little and bought for myself but felt more that he deserved the gift of self love...

Jock of the Bushveld for his lonelier nights, a South African classic just right for the bushbaby that he intrinsically was...

A cross on string that my grandparents had brought back from Jerusalem along with a prayer book I had been given on my Holy Communion...

And finally, a blessings and protective amulet for the home made of brass I think, that had been a housewarming gift to me by a truly special individual indeed.

But while he never laid a finger on me again, as he had promised, his abuse turned to emotional and mental... But I bore it.

His had been a traumatizing upbringing, knowing not a scrap of love, and I hoped so very desperately I could heal him of his trauma with my endless and undying love and affection, my steadfastness, my constancy.

But one day I made the mistake of giving away a pair of Ray Bans, for all he had a pair of his own, and he was livid and beyond to speak plain. And perhaps it was then that I truly realised. We would never be sympatico. Not of the same cloth.

We were doomed.

For all I treasured the Aventurine pendant on a silver chain he'd given me for Christmas, never taking it off, and the prized mosaic cross - another gift from him - with dots of blue glass that glimmered a deep forest green when I admired it by night by candlelight, hanging at eyelevel before my bed so I could gaze into it by evening fall....

But what of my gifts? So treasured to me it almost hurt to give them away but I wished to give him all this penniless writer could, and such treasures beloved for years most of them...

Especially precious seeing as prone to mania as I can be I so often find myself giving all my earthly possessions away and only the truly special remain... The wonky donkeys... The protective amulets... The bamboo chimes...

But with him... My gifts?

Lost. Misplaced. Forgotten.

Concerned more by a designer pair of sunglasses.

Indeed we were doomed and I knew it then. And I knew its sickness too.

And I will tell it to you plain...

Capitalism is an evil. And it festers. It corrupts.

It robs the truly priceless of its innate raw beauty and immeasurable value only to be replaced by the shiny and new and utterly soulless. Cold it is to the touch.

And I will have no part of it in my life.

And for all I flirt now with love again, should I truly fall, truly and utterly fall in love, my future lover shall know the true meaning of priceless treasure, or find me gone with the wind.