What’s trash to one is treasure to another, as it’s so often said. Few others are compelled to admire and delight in the same inventory of weird and ridiculous, horrendous and lovely things that speaks to me. My little mental attic is just as specific as anyone’s, and likely to be as unappealing to them as theirs would be to me.
But one of the pleasures of this individuality is the ability to share our stories about what’s stored in our unique vaults of ideation, whether in truth or fiction, and revel in our moments of visitation to unknown worlds through the tales. In writing, telling, reading, and hearing, we share and exchange ideas and beliefs, feelings and fantasies, insights and excitations with each other, all from the safe remove of communication that need not be wholly shared experience. After, we can choose to join in on the newfound interests and adventures, or we can choose to retreat to our own inner worlds, perhaps changed a little by the passage or, if not, only glad that we don’t have to dwell in each other’s lives and happy to return to the familiar comfort of our own favored inventories of thoughts and things.