Vintage TV

First published on:

People make it a point to put me in a box — maybe I put myself there, too.

A box; a square with an image in the middle; a screen in which they see me as they think I am.

However, no two people see the same colours in it nor hear the same sounds come from it.

If I were to choose the frame, it would be a Vintage TV.

The heavy ones, which occasionally bend the wood they are placed upon.

Images of old cartoons in fading colours would shimmer into dark rooms.

The frame would take up so much space; and yet, it would have a sticker on either side saying ‘Sorry’.

Apologies for having been placed there, for I am feeling out of place.

Still, I do my best to entertain.

Occasionally, the screen fades into grey: poor connection or low power.

Whenever either of the two happens, they hit the frame – they hit me.

Perhaps it is but a misplaced TV antenna, the wrong channel sparked by a wrong signal – but I take the blame anyway, so they do not have to.

All I want, is to entertain; to bring happiness and make them laugh louder than the speaker’s volume.

No matter who’s watching, no matter if they live there or are only on vacation,

nor is it of importance whether they pay attention, or simply want to feel less alone with some background noise.

Cartoons play, movies too and so do the documentaries full of words of wisdom and advice if they need them –

channeled directly from a higher place, presented on a vertical glass screen.

Gladly, shading their dull eyes with colourful lights.

The screen has played many scenes over the years, and faded into grey; faded into black — in need of a break,

but instead there was another hit: screen shimmering on; a scene, nothing but a repetition.

A show so memorised in it’s core, the Vintage TV could play them without a tape.

Eventually, the box full of wires and cables behind that screen knotted into a mess,

but the show must go on!

the constant power flowing through them, making them tired and hot –

the show must go on!

until there was a fire within.


Broken beyond repair.

Without hesitation, people put it on the cool pavement in front of their door.

The rain made sounds: drops crashing against the burnt silver frame. Small explosions into nothingness.

The light out, the sound gone.

By chance, it was found by loving hands,

the very hands which made it in the first place,

and was placed again in the very first room it shined cartoons into: Childhood Room.

Burned wires,

broken frame,

freedom found

in healing.

Never going back

to pleasing nor

shining on command

for other people.

For people make it a point to put me in a box, and once its frames crushed all that I was.




people make it a point to put me in a box – I make it a point to bre

ak that box.

For I cannot be put into a frame,

my lively spirits flow fearlessly now.

– veronika foer

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