15th June 2017

My blue hat.

The colour has been leached from it over the years, life taking it’s toll. It began a bright blue but just as the light inside us fades so did my companion. It has remained a loyal servant, it’s dedication to me and my adventures absolutely unwavering. I’ve travelled thousands of hours and meet hundreds of people yet it has remained by my side. Through times both tough and joyful, my skin has transformed from a soft white canvas to one much more weathered, brown dots and crinkled lines paint my face like snow covers a hill. This hat has come along with me, it’s soft fabric becoming rough over time, it’s character shown through the light and dark patches, the hills and troughs of existence. These highs and lows, sun damaged days & chilly wind whipped nights shown through one simple piece of fabric. A somewhat cheap gift shop hat that I could easily replace given the chance, yet I don’t because it’s a piece of me. There exist many hats that look better to the eye but none will ever feel right, they haven’t endured the challenges that it has or returned to me many a time when I thought it beyond lost. As silly as it may sound this hat has become a part of me, so many memories are tethered to its being that If I were to lose track of it I may never wear a hat ever again, it would hurt too much. Something with this sense of belonging cannot be replaced easily. Sure I ‘own’ this hat in a sense, the same way that any man can own something but It means a lot more to me than that. It means growing up, it means maturation and making new friends, It means growing out of emotional issues & moving on. It’s a whole lot more than just a hat.

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  1. This brings to mind this poem I love:

    My nephew sleeping in a basement room
    has put a sheet of iron outside his window
    to recapture the sound of rain falling on the roof

    I do not say to him, The heart has its own comfort for grief.
    A sheet of iron repairs roofs only. As yet unhurt by the demand
    that change and difference never show, he is still able
    to mend damages by creating the loved rain-sound
    he thinks he knew in early childhood.

    Nor do I say, In the travelling life of loss
    iron is a burden, that one day he must find
    within himself in total darkness and silence
    the iron that will hold not only the lost sound of the rain
    but the sun, the voices of the dead, and all else that has gone.

    by Janet Frame

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