I sleep with two bed stands, one on the left of my bed, one on my right. As I lie in bed, my right holds a stereo, two hats, one canvas and a World War Two helmet, that I sanded down and repainted, after removing the compacted mess of insulation and wood that the rats had made in it.
This helmet is dented, and the strap, before I removed it for replacement, was worn.
This helmet, perhaps, this little metal skull skin, was worn by some individual during the war; or perhaps merely created for this grisly purpose of the deaths of good people in an endless fucking meat grinder of violence.
What would such a thing steeped in the blood of the possibly metaphorical many think of being placed beside a little boy, slowly growing up and occasionally moving it to use the radio, or wear a hat.
It now holds that which those who wore it fought to have, art in a peaceful environment. The forefathers of its new owner were inclined towards business and policy. The forefathers of those forefathers battled so that their sons may write for a better future, and their grandsons may be artists, and that is what has occurred.
The thing that used to protect the weak parts of humans now watches over the most vulnerable part of the man’s life, total prolonged unconsciousness on a daily basis. It witnesses a child grow up and is sometimes sniffed and batted at by a cat. That same boy spent a long time sanding it down and slightly botched painting it, but was proud nevertheless.
What could such a thing say, should it be blessed with speech? How would the very incarnation of the horrors of war react to the slow life and evolution of a modern boy to young man?