Monotony of Sameness

Passing by an empty room, abandoned in the thrush of college life, I found a NYT tote bag by the trash can. Wilted and greying, but still: mine. I could finally have the stylish bag I admired on everyone else.

It’s been a few wash cycles with this monotone bag, terrycloth and faded ink. It looks weathered, but it is mine. Every time I wear it, I think I’m inventing something; until I step outside.

Three people pass me per week with the same bag; newer, crisper, but otherwise identical. I am but a drop in a sea of subscribers. I wonder where theirs came from, and doubt fills my head of the poverty I came from. I wonder if they can tell mine was scavenged.

I feel like a bird of flight, whose wings change color in predator’s view. I suppose that would make me a winged chameleon; an image even more harmful. A shame.

I wonder what it’s like to feel so imatory; it’s a weight in my chest, and a pit in my throat. My second therapist is helping me identify the physicality of emotions; a chill runs down my spine. My breathing grows stiff.

What was it like, the production of these bags? What about the advertisement? Was it subliminally sent to us through papers and ads? Or is it simply the view of someone whose power and position you yearn to imitate, that’s strong enough to compel one to buy the stupid tote. What does it mean if yours wasn’t thrifted? The gentrification of sustainability ripping the right of secondhand from the poor. Why, in emulation of what I want, does identification of sameness make me so sad?

This assimilation has robbed me of my individuality.

Me and the matching tote girl pack up from our seats.

We leave.