"Schrijf een verhaal over een levenloos object"

The humans might not know about our inanimate life. Think that we are just soulless objects there to justify their needs. Well, they are partly right, but when an inanimate object gets made with love and care by a human, with dedication and lot of work, an inanimate object gains life. Not the sort of life a human lives, but a life of taking in what’s around us. We are basically just there without the interaction part of life. I do not have a name, but the humans call me chair. Because we can’t interact, why would we have a name? It’s not like we can react to it. However, no matter how much explaining I do, you will probably not understand how we “live”.

I will however tell you my story, but first a bit of information of how I came to be. I was made by hand by a man called Dennis. It was in his workshop where I first acknowledged the world, the things around me, the way Dennis ran his workshop, everything. We, as inanimate objects learn by, weirdly enough, observing. Not that we have eyes, but we can still sort of take in all the information. I was put on sale one day, together with others like me. It didn’t take long before we were bought together with a table and put into a house. The house was owned by a couple which was expecting a child. My first years were what you would call “normal” for a chair. Day in day out just being used as an Inanimate object. Luckily for us, getting bored wasn’t something we could do, but we were still able to feel two things: happiness and sadness. I only knew sadness the day I got like you might have guessed, broken and replaced. Some people would just repair their furniture, but I was the unlucky one to go.

Altough it doesn’t end there. I was found by a human living on the street and used while being broken. It gave me a different perspective on how the humans live. Some people have a lot, some do not. But the people who had less took better care of me. Not that weird if you think about it, if I only had a few belongings I’d take good care of them too. The man tried to fix me, but not with great expertise. However, it did the job and kept me whole for the years to come. During my time with the man I began to understand why he was in such a poor state. He always traded all he had in for different kind of drugs, and this way he never got any closer to get off the streets. However, this was his way of life until it ended, which didn’t take too long. One day, the man didn’t come back to his place in the alley where I was placed. Maybe he fixed his life, but I’ll just presume that his last chapter in life came to a close.

So there I was again, alone, ready to go. I wasn’t happy, nor sad. I was just waiting. Not like there was anything else to do. I began to question if there was even an end for me. Or was I just destined to observe for eternity? If you think there might come a happy ending to my story, no. After years of loneliness it just suddenly stopped. No one else took me in, but I don’t blame them. How could humans know that we sort of “live”. I wish I could communicate in one way or another, tell them everything I saw. Everything we saw. I wonder how the humans would react. Scared? Sad? Confused? Maybe a mixture of them all. While I will not find the answers to my questions, I hope the humans might someday realise there is much more to what they call an inanimate object.

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