I do not leave the house frequently, but due to my friend Emie visiting from Norway we have been visiting some of the locations locally for sight seeing and various shops to browse, one of these such shops was a rather old antique shop. Built in the 1800's, these Victorian buildings aren't uncommon where I live, but it was more what it housed within that created an unexpected reaction.
For those unaware, I (that is, my fictotype within the DL canon) am known for collecting silverware, cutlery and the like, for I enjoy it's form, composure and elegance. I 'here' have a much lessened interest, to that of a mild appreciation, rather than a fixated adoration. Because of this, I admit at times have felt rather saddened at the aspect of contrasting tastes, due to the fact I have had a fan once talk to me as if my arousal for cutlery still remained, and I had to disappoint.
This is somewhat why I was a little confused and shaken by the reaction I had within this antique's shop upon finding myself in a section purely dedicated to that of silverware.
Honestly, the amount of knives and forks that covered every surface, filled every draw to the brim was something to behold. I never thought I'd be enraptured by so many pieces of table instruments yet there I was; at first enjoying the browsing of the shop, yet then stricken by a jarring sensation of disruption of self. Words will fail to capture the utter dissonance of thoughts that went through me as my eyes gazed over the many knives and forks, a sensation pushed forward from depths of unknown proclaiming "I have done this before" yet the images showing hands not belonging to this body. Singular gloved and a darker room, mahogany table and intricate items. The images felt as if they 'could' be a memory, yet they felt unbelonging to this brain, an imprint from an other place, one not meant for this world yet tapped into through erroneous strings of tangled fate.
I was not so shaken I couldn't remain, yet I still felt overwhelmed, and part of me gave words of caution to leave sooner rather than further subject myself to the environment. For what reason? Unsure. There's always a sense of breaking reality when it comes to my fictionkin experiences, to be moving through actions and processes that are reserved for fiction, rather than this reality. It feels 'wrong', on some level, yet also the only way it can be.
Something to think about, I suppose.