The Bag of Burdens - According to Sage

Sage had a theory.

Now, historically, Sage’s theories had ranged from mildly insightful to deeply questionable, so this one was approached with the appropriate level of suspicion - even by Sage herself.

Still…

it had legs.

She was almost - almost - certain that everyone was walking around carrying invisible bags.

Not handbags. Not suitcases. Nothing so organised.

No, these were more like those dreadful hiking rucksacks - the ones with far too many compartments. So many that you’re forever rummaging around, convinced you’ve lost something important, only to discover it was in the first pocket you checked.

Only…

invisible.

Which was inconvenient, because it meant people kept bumping into each other’s bags without realising - clipping, colliding, turning too quickly - and then wondering why everything felt so…

fraught.

Probably just as well they couldn’t see them.

Otherwise “sorry” would be said every other second.

Especially by the British.

Sage had spent a good portion of her life assuming people were simply being difficult.

This remained, in her opinion, partially true.

However -

she was now open to the possibility that they were also…

encumbered.

These bags, as far as she could tell, were filled with all the things people refused to deal with.

Unexpressed grief. Old resentments. That one thing someone said in 1997 that should have been let go of by now -

but absolutely had not.

Also -

generalised annoyance.

She often pictured people as giant tortoises.

And when the contents of their bags became too much, said tortoises would find themselves flipped onto their backs - legs flailing, dignity abandoned.

Luckily, much like actual tortoises, humans tend to gather around the afflicted - offering advice, hugs, and a cup of tea.

The latter, of course, being a medically unproven but culturally undeniable cure for most things in the UK.

It was, however, only ever temporary.

Sooner or later, the tortoise would right itself…

and, given time, end up on its back again.

Until, at some point, it sought proper help.

Everyone, it seemed, had at least one particularly stubborn item in their bag.

A sort of favourite misery.

The kind that follows them around, popping up in different situations wearing increasingly unconvincing disguises.

“Oh look,” Sage would think (privately, because she had learned a few things),

“there it is again."

Same issue.

New hat.”

She herself had carried a rather impressive collection over the years.

Fear featured heavily.

Fear of getting it wrong.

Fear of being too much.

Fear of not being enough.

She had also, at one point, carried a completely unreasonable fear of snakes

This had persisted well into her fifties -

which she felt was long enough to qualify as a personality trait.

Sage considered herself a particularly experienced tortoise.

She had been helped back onto her feet so many times that she’d grown rather fond of the alternative perspective - the sky, the clouds, the forced stillness.

She had learned to use those moments.

Belly-up and temporarily defeated -

to reflect.

And so, naturally, she considered herself something of an expert on the plight of others.

In her more heroic moments, Sage imagined herself wielding a large pair of scissors.

Not for the snakes.

For the bags.

Not in a threatening way - more in a helpful, if slightly unsolicited, capacity.

In her mind’s eye, she was a ninja.

Dressed in black.

Patient.

Precise.

Waiting for the opportune moment.

Then -

SNIP.

Down the bag would fall.

Liberation.

Possibly mild confusion.

Maybe a bit of screaming - understandable, given the circumstances.

But overall -

progress.

Sage had, however, come to realise that people were strangely attached to their bags.

Even the particularly unpleasant ones.

They clutched them. Defended them. Rearranged the contents, occasionally.

But let them go?

Absolutely not.

In earlier years, she had tried pointing this out.

Offering advice.

Helpful suggestions.

Insightful observations.

(What she considered to be excellent insights.)

These were, more often than not, received with the sort of polite nod usually reserved for someone who has slightly misjudged the tone of a dinner party.

So, Sage adjusted her approach.

Now, she mostly observed.

And occasionally raised an eyebrow.

Which, she had discovered, could be surprisingly effective.

Every now and then, she would encounter someone who had begun unpacking their bag.

These people were…

different.

Lighter.

Less inclined to take things personally—or to fling their contents at unsuspecting bystanders.

They had developed the rather alarming habit of feeling their feelings.

Sage found this both admirable…

and deeply suspicious.

Still -

it seemed to work.

She had also observed that small children did not appear to carry these bags.

At least, not at first.

They arrived blissfully unencumbered, while someone else carried everything for them - bottles, blankets, snacks…

emotional stability.

It was, Sage felt, an excellent system.

One that deteriorated rather quickly.

Which was why, she concluded, it was probably wise to have children before one’s own bag became too…

structurally unsound.

There was also the matter of beginnings and endings.

Sage wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it, but it did strike her as curious -

that we enter the world enclosed, held safely, contained -

in the womb -

and leave it in a wooden box.

With a great deal of bag-carrying in between.

Sage wasn’t certain she had a conclusion.

Which, for once, did not trouble her.

But she had started to suspect -

that the trick was not to get rid of the bag entirely.

(That seemed wildly optimistic.)

But perhaps…

it was simply this:

to notice what we keep putting in.

to question why we carry it.

and, when we can -

to put it down.

Because the bag was never the problem.

It was everything we insisted on carrying inside it.

And how tightly we chose to hold on.

There are moments when truth arrives softly,

and others when it slips in sideways, disguised as humour.

The Watcher sees what is.

Sage makes it easier to bear.

Between them lies a shared knowing -

of what we carry,

and what, in time, we may learn to release.