Chair, A Chair
A chair; beautiful, handsome as a mare. Plato's vision is just a piece of wood forcibly welded together. In contrast to Aristotle's mimesis, we now admire it as a crown of power. A chair never discriminates. Its bearers categorise it. Revolutions in colonies have always been planned by leaders sitting in broken-legged chairs; whereas the people sitting in thrones decorated with emeralds, pearls, and gold haven't done anything but just get bored of their fading legacy. A chair has long served to rest the adipose tissue and indicate to the people around you that you are relaxed and comfortable.
When polished, a piece of raw wood could also hold the power of refining one's personality. Eminent personalities must not have said anything, but their dark, smoggy eyes would have conveyed to us that - ‘Sitting on a chair was taking oneself to a place, when no one could afford to give them comfort, silence, and confidence.’ A blessing in disguise, despite all the perils surrounding them; a home away from home, the chair became their small abode. A place to sit when commanded, fall upon when shattered, hold themselves when burdened, and grow whenever necessary. More than just showing power to others, validation was a means of connecting to oneself, and the only way to spread abstracted charity.
Dining tables and chairs means sitting beside someone you care about and dragging your chair to sit a bit closer. Soon tangled wooden legs represent closeness and nearness, symbolising lovers' desire for a place in each other's hearts. Clubs, gentlemen's clubs, mock the sensitive side of some men present in the room. "To be taken in frivolous spirits, dear flower", says the mocker to a laughing stock. His chair, the most elegant in the room, adorned with silk cloth and beautifully patterned hosiery, now turns black and brown, smudged and smeared by the dirt he bought. His character stains the cloth; whereas the chair of the laughing stock, though simple and uncomplicated, now shines radiantly like the advent of dawn, void of frivolous decoration. Here, Plato’s truthfulness wins over Aristotle's craftiness.
In women's clubs, not a single chair is dull. All covered and embellished with materials and jewels of amusement. The room is filled with the fragrance of lily, jasmine, and orchids, so much so that they represent a canopy of forests. The women who sit on them are anything but ladylike - legs up on the table, the hem of the heavy gowns reaching up to their knees, smoking, carelessly enjoying the finest of French wine, laughing wildly, loudly, and stupendously - some without reason, while others have tears rolling down their cheeks. Some rock their chairs to a monotonous rhythm, while others stand on them and dance, a mode of repressed expression. The chairs look satisfied and full of all the pleasures bestowed upon them. The ladies are happy, the women happiest as each leaves with their chosen chair, to their homes.
I cannot believe that chairs were used to flag hostages and defaulters. A cruel treatment. It angered me that the chairs didn't break when dipped in the cold waters of lakes. Cruelty is a part of humanity, as it unconsciously seeps into their fantasies. Why did the chairs lack sympathy, if not empathy, towards the people ill-treated, especially women, 'witches' as the world proclaimed, bundled up with them for days on end? They must have tried to flee, I'm sure. Hands desperate, hearts downtrodden. They must have cried and shouted. I am sorry, but the chairs couldn't escape the patriarchy flu. Hegemonic in attitude and stern in judgment, you were also hopeless, O dear chair!
After my Mom, my desk chair is my only true companion in this world. As for me, I am a mere human and a lover, therefore emotions come naturally to me. Despite my body's weight and the tensions I carry in my head, you, O dear Chair, you too get giddy when I get happy. This is when my work is finished and the goal accomplished. You always stood beside me whenever problems dawned in my life. You must be the one who held my spinal cord down assertively, so I could study for a bit longer, learn, and strive for success and excellence more.
One day, looking at my desk chair, I sighed and admitted to my brown, rugged, dark mahogany wood chair that, “I loved nature the most. I loved the tranquillity it provided whenever I felt at peace. My creation was based on nature, but there was still something missing. Maybe I outgrew myself. Maybe I changed my opinions and views about you, O Chair. You have always been so wonderful to me and have never let me down, but alas it's time for me to venture somewhere completely different. You will forever be in my heart, my number one comrade! You will always be my first love, and I’m sure not many people can say that, let alone to a tangible object. It would be so wonderful indeed to walk into the canopy and have my dark, luscious art spill onto my paper.” You dismantled yourself as soon as I completed my sentimental speech, and you fell flat on the ground. You resembled a small pile of wood dust. As a result, you set me free, and I like to think you have forgiven me since I did finally sit on the tree's thick bark feeling ecstatic and calm, on my brand-new chair, on the tall Banyan tree. On a long, sturdy piece of wood, on The Real Chair.