it is a simple chair made of wood painted in black save for the dusty green cushion on the seat which came off over the years and had to be nailed back down.
the back of the chair is covered in scars and paint chips caused by yours truly.
when i was young, my dad bought my brother and i a toy sword and of course i, harmonizing with the childish muses of curiosity and imagination, hacked away at whatever i saw. this included that chair, among many chairs. and a bedpost.
people say children are pure, uncorrupted by the sins of the world, naive to deception, ignorant of atrocities caused by his race. they are white as snow; blank slates.
people say children know nothing of the complicated ways of adults. they don’t know money, they don’t know power, they don’t know property.
so i hacked away at my parent’s property.
but i remember there would be times when something which belonged to me would break. there would be times when something which belonged to me was stolen from me. and i would be consumed with rage, and overcome with loss.
i would grieve the destruction of what i deemed to be my own personal property.
it’s not that i didn’t understand the concept of property. i understood it clearly since i could remember. i just didn’t understand the concept of property when it belonged to others.
i was pure. uncorrupted by the idea of empathy. naive to compassion, ignorant of ethical law. i was white as snow; the world was black, and my slate waited to be painted grey so that i could finally understand that hacking at a chair meant hurting a person.