There is a strange moment that sometimes happens immediately after buying something beautiful.
You stop enjoying it.
Instead, you begin protecting it.
The bag must not touch the floor.
The shoes cannot meet the weather.
The sofa becomes available only to people who promise not to sit like normal human beings.
The motorcycle is admired most safely from a distance of at least two metres.
Suddenly, the object you chose to improve your life has started organising it.
You check the forecast before wearing it.
You reconsider ordering anything containing tomato.
You calculate corners, surfaces and possible sources of damage with the strategic concentration of an air traffic controller.
All because something beautiful must remain perfect.
Or so we tell ourselves.
But perfection has a problem.... It rarely produces a story.
Some of the most beautiful objects I know are not beautiful because nothing has ever happened to them. They are beautiful because life has.
Leather becomes softer where a hand has held it repeatedly. Boots begin to follow the shape of the person who wears them. A favourite jacket stops looking like something selected in a shop and starts looking like it could belong to nobody else.
Even the smallest marks become coordinates.
This happened here.
That travelled with me.
This was worn on a day worth remembering.
Of course, there is a difference between using something and neglecting it.
Care matters.
Looking after what we own is a form of respect—for the object, the craftsmanship behind it and the resources used to acquire it.
But care and fear are not the same thing.
Care allows something to accompany us for years.
Fear keeps it waiting for a life important enough to justify using it.
The special dinner.
The perfect weather.
The right destination.
The occasion that surely deserves the good glasses, the beautiful dress or the expensive perfume.
Meanwhile, ordinary life continues.
And perhaps ordinary life was the occasion all along.
Luxury is often presented as separation: something too precious for daily use, protected from contact with anything unpredictable.
But I think real luxury is participation.
It is wearing the beautiful coat on an unremarkable Tuesday.
Opening the bottle.
Taking the car out of the garage.
Allowing the object to perform the purpose for which it was created.
A beautifully designed chair was still made to hold a person. A dress was designed to move. A motorcycle was built for roads, not only photographs. A table becomes meaningful when people gather around it.
Without life, beauty remains only potential.
This applies beyond objects.
We sometimes protect our best qualities in exactly the same way.
We save our confidence for the moment we feel completely ready. Our boldness for an opportunity large enough to deserve it. Our most generous ideas for an audience certain to appreciate them.
We keep the best parts of ourselves in perfect condition.
Unused.
But beautiful things—and beautiful qualities—do not become more valuable by avoiding every risk.
They become personal through contact.
So yes, take care of what matters.
Clean it. Maintain it. Appreciate it.
But then wear it.
Ride it.
Open it.
Use it.
Let it enter the complicated, unpredictable and occasionally tomato-sauce-covered reality of being alive.
The finest things should not remain evidence that you once bought them.
They should become evidence that you lived with them.
Silvia
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