Have you ever pondered the secret lives of ordinary things? Like chairs feel, I'm sure, existential grief when sat upon too often, but spoons—ah spoons—they live in a world of soothing constants.
Once upon many nowhere yesterdays, during a tea party of the mind, I sat with an old silver spoon. Its surface shimmered with stories, tales of quiet eavesdropping from inside kitchens across centuries and continents. "Tell me your history," I whispered softly, seeking whispered secrets.
And what a marvellous metaphor, I thought, but dismissing it to get lost in a casual daydream distracts anyone’s coffee now and again.
An existential pond full of sweet silver reflections...
Staring in electric fragments of this spoony schema, may I suggest visiting other impactful relics? Find time for Sofa: Schrödinger's Sit., or wonder briefly what things forgot in garden corners crave when no one knows they exist.