The Curator

THE CURATOR (READ WHILE HUMMING THE BEATLES’ ‘ELEANOR RIGBY’)

She was a curator of her days. Collecting, organizing, observing them as though they didn’t really belong to her. As though up on a shelf, or hanging there in just the right light. Catalogued. Not able to be a participant, an owner of the full body of what life offered. Floating along, hovering, watching, for what she never had a clue. Hope, happiness, sadness, intimacy, all irrelevant emotions and experiences for her. Seemingly incapable of, even disinterested in, connecting. Just playing out her time, letting the collected days unwind until there was no more string. Alone. No one to care about her collection. How sad.