Wear

After you peel the screen protector off your new phone, there’s a moment when you almost don’t want to touch it. The black mirror beams back at you, and as tempting as it is to get going, you’re reluctant to leave the inevitable thumbprint as evidence it’s no longer immaculate.

Preservation is an obsession, an inescapable angst where, at any moment, something flawless could be sullied. The longer the lie lasts, the greater the pain when the inevitable occurs. We cannot protect everything from accidents, dust, or decay, yet we do our utmost. Though, as any collector would tell you, once something is tarnished, its value is diminished.

Whether its significance is monetary or sentimental, whatever was previously perfect will never feel quite the same after the first stain. Truthfully, to focus on the fault in something is to be human. This mindset has driven innovation and defined the improvement in our quality of life, but does trying to preserve our belongings contribute to our unhappiness?

I’d argue so, because the things I’ve enjoyed most have always been those that are long past protecting. Contemplate the comfort of an old sweatshirt riddled with morsels of meals gone by, or shoes worn through until you start to see toes. Previously, those were precious, but now they’re beyond the threshold; they’ve transitioned into a state of being beloved.

As soon as you overcome your concern for keeping something pristine, your time together becomes carefree. Another blemish is barely distinguishable from the last. You’re no longer presenting yourself; you revert to being yourself.