The Mental Toys

When I was small, I had the tendency to destroy my toys. I wasn't the sort of kid who knew the value of an unwrapped or a shiny-scratchless toy. I used to have a Thundercats sword, and my cousin had one too. My mother would tell me after some months about my cousin kept his sword nicely, occasionally taking it out to have a good look at it, then point to my sword, and noted how battered it had already become, like it has seen actual battle.

Then there were a few other Thundercat toys, one or two Transformers, a ton of military vehicles, armies of infantry, grenade launchers, and a zoo's worth of animals (they don't make toys like they do anymore I think). I took a lot of pride in destroying the toys, which is partly why I don't have a great collection of ancient toys. My once vast World War 2 battalion is left with perhaps 5 or 6 veterans (the rest are in peace (or pieces)). I made them fight. I made them heroes with scars. A hand torn. A leg dismembered. A head severed.

I didn't know the value of toys. Not that I regret it. The way I handled my toys reminds me a little of what I'm like. I'm always trying to make things real. Make things happen. Always imagining, and sometimes taking it too far. And sometimes being unreasonably illogical. [I could give the example of my brother, who had the habit of painting my toys, and his toys, and all his models, not in a sparkly clean way, but in a detailed 'used' and worn-out way. He was very meticulous in making things look used, and cool, at the same time.] It doesn't mean I didn't love my toys, because I did. It's just that I saw it fit that I disfigured them, because that, to me, was their purpose.

Then naturally, over the years, we put the toys in boxes. Closets. And mostly, I don't miss them. They've done their job. It's really just time to put them away, and get excited about new things.

The physical toys, and the mental toys.