My Pearls Are My Life: Not For Sale

Sometimes the perfect blog post title can be found on a tag in an antique store. Such is the case here, where a mannequin posed with the titular phrase. A bit of punctuation tweaking and suddenly things took on a deeper meaning. Blacksmith’s Antiques is filled with such hidden art, and some startlingly spooky items as well. Dolls like these are creepy on so many levels, I don’t understand how our children aren’t more disturbed. There is an eerie beauty to their dilapidated state, though, and a sadness that hints of neglect and age and the passing of time and innocence.

We all suffer similar effects, even if they’re mostly internal. I don’t know anyone who could stand to face a Dorian Gray-like portrait that told a physical tale of what they were thinking throughout their life. Let it be writ on the fading visage of these dolls rather than anything else.

Here is where we discover whatever happened to Baby Jane. Here we see who was afraid of Virginia Wolff. Here is the embodiment of soiled dreams and dingy nightmares, the stuff of hourglass sand and every thing that ever had a price tag attached to it.

The past can be a sad and scary place, and even happy moments can’t last forever. Time conquers and takes all, including the most trifling memento.

Time devours the present and prepares its great gaping mouth for the future. Emotionless, it swallows us up, and the only thing to do is give in to its relentless march, easing into its unyielding formation.

When you make your peace with time, all else falls into place.

It is the land that flows by the river, and the world that spins by your ear, as a pair of dancing mice sings a sweet song of youth.

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