We touch the world and the world touches us. With every instant that goes by, we leave echoes of ourselves on the world around us and the world in turn leaves its marks upon us. Our lives are a myriad of infinite, constantly shifting experiences ranging from the very tangible hello-goodbye handshake to the constant reorganization of the semiotic framework that forms the foundation of who we are, and with every experience, traces of its passing become embedded in the fabric of our world.
The thing about traces is that they are everywhere and everything. The creases in the blanket may point to the person that lay there, but the blanket itself is an index of the cotton plants from which its material was gathered and of the processes by which the cotton was refined, spun and woven, bleached and dyed, packaged and sold so that it may one day end up on the bed to be slept upon. The blanket becomes a text to be read; to be deciphered and interpreted. It has imbedded upon it the traces of all that has come before it, both physically and symbolically, and through our most often unconscious consideration of this blanket we in turn imbue it with new possibilities, just as it does us. Having considered this blanket, even unconsciously, we now carry its trace with us, to shift and subtly alter all our perceptions to come.
As for the person who once slept there; he’ll come soon.
Because nothing exists in isolation.