He lives in this shack. He lives in this unsealed box, among the rotting logs and dying grass. He lives in this lumber stand, that bares no warmth or interest in his welling being. However, this does not deter the man that lives within the four panels. He is happier than can be. He is content within the hobble. For this is what he knows, this is what he loves, this is what has been his only support since his beginnings – that faithful day he stumbled into the world so unprepared.
One may look and see green planks of particle board, tossed together as a makeshift stand that may have been used once or twice before being forgotten and disregarded. The thought might be of shrugging and baring disinterest. Some may look inside, only out of interest of what it might hold, and be sorely disappointed to find a few empty cans, a plastic bag and a half empty jar of peanut butter. There is no treasure for them there. But the man that lives there see otherwise.
The four panels bare the mark of safety. They relieve him of the harsh winds and heavy snowfalls of the winter. They protect him from the dominate sun and cooling rains of the summer. They keep out the things he fears most. The inside is like a heaven. He keep there his few possessions. Three cans, now empty, from the first time he sheltered a friend. They shared many memories today, including the sweet taste of preserved soda. A plastic bag. The bag he found while collecting cans, a bag that he now uses to carry objects from one place to another. His only storage aside from his last pocket that was about to go. And the jar of peanut butter. A prize to himself when the hunger begins to sink in and he has found himself doing particularly well.
The value of things is a tricky concept, but the ideology stands so strongly. What may be a trash to one, my very well be the very thing keeping another fighting through their days.