Its Not These Things

Its not these things.

Its not these items.

These tokens, markers, and milestones.

Its not the ever growing string of tin cans, pulled down the road.

You find these boxes.

Square corners, right angles, straight sides.

On the shelf, above the bed.

Giving dust a stage to perform on.

Its not these things.

Its not these boxes.

Accumulation by time's hands.

The contents, sculpted to your form.

Its not these things.

Its not your things, or my things.

The myth of value's travel through time.

The myth of the physical.

Its relationships.

Meaning and legacy is stored therein.

And all that is of value lives therein.

And in there too is the fountain of youth.

And the true pillars of your world.

The meaning is not in the art object.

The meaning is in your relationship with the art.

Through space, when you first experience it.

And through time, when you recall.

Its not that you exist.

Or that I exist.

Its that we exist.

And that we truly believe that to be the case.

And then I give you the thing.

Some stone, to mark that belief.

And that stone matters precisely when we realise.

Its not these things.