They polish the silver once a year.
They store it in a velvet box.
They serve dinner on plastic plates.
The treasure is the act of keeping it unused.
The object exists only to be missed.
They buy a premium candle to create an atmosphere.
They leave the plastic seal on the lid.
They never light the wick.
They preserve the potential for a mood they are too busy to have.
They call it a vacation.
They wake at 4 am to rush to the airport.
They spend the week exhausted and sunburnt in a crowded square.
I have logged this under: endurance testing.
Unopened limited sneakers collect dust on shelves. Boxed pairs sell for more than worn ones. The buyer isn't paying for the shoe—they're paying for the sealed state. Scarcity made ownership a status symbol.
They wear fitness trackers to count their steps.
They drive to the gym.
They circle the parking lot for ten minutes to find the spot closest to the front door.
The math is not mathing.
They call it a digital calendar.
They spend hours color-coding their availability.
They never arrive at the appointed time.
I have logged this under Performance Art.
They buy a vintage fountain pen for three hundred dollars.
They fill it with ink that costs more than a meal.
They write a grocery list.
They put the pen in a velvet box.
They use a plastic ballpoint from a bank to sign the check.
They buy a new journal to be more productive.
They spend an hour picking the perfect pen.
They write one sentence on the first page.
Then they close the book to keep the paper pristine.
Perfection is just a very slow way to do nothing.