On the Beauty of Rubbish

Rubbish is beautiful. The things we leave in our bins reveal parts of our identity - our desires, our needs, our dislikes. The contents of our rubbish are a collage of our passing. Our rubbish is a record of our existence in the physical universe. Maybe that's why we have become so enamoured of the cycle of consumerism - desire, acquisition, use, disillusionment, renewed desire (for something else), discard - our consumption marks us as 'good', constantly renewed, and 'normal', while our regurgitation cleanses us of the 'bad' used materials. Very rarely do we fully digest something.
Our debris are little status tracks we leave in the sand, quickly blown over, but for those who witnessed, an insight. We become immortal, in our minds, through our rubbish, little piles like monuments. The tracks disappear (although Antiques Roadshow looks hard for them) but the possessions are our relics. We touched them, wore them, loved them (however briefly) and they will be forever imbued with 'us'.
But who actually believes that? Do you, when you are alone in the dark, breathe a sigh of relief borne of the knowledge, should small meteorite plunge through the atmosphere and punch a hole in your ceiling before ending your life as you lie in bed dreaming of that perfect side-table, that your jetsam will sing your song while being cast, like ashes in the wind, amongst the garbage tips and second-hand stores? And besides, when we throw things away they move from the sacred to the profane. We hate our rubbish. That's why we give it to the poor or to the earth, because we hate them too.
But aren't we missing something? Isn't there some great insight to be had, a compassion felt, or some sliver of the universe to be found in the rubbish tips, the second-hand stores, the dirty alleyways? Those places are libraries of our lives; here a bridesmaid's dress, cast off with bitter tears; there a little stereo, given freely after a Christmas bonus makes room for a new, bigger one; here a set of clothes too big now for the former owner (they jog everyday); there an Oxford Dictionary, the final evictee from the life of a boy once in love with words and now scrabbling for a teaspoon of smack. Such places are uncompromising and raw, and beautiful, so beautiful. Little editing has been done, and the usual sanitising we are subject too is gone. Every type of story is there, but they don't cry out "Here! Me! Look at me!" (like this blog does). The objects are mute, and their silence prompts curiosity - Who...? Why...? For a moment we ask, we step outside ourselves and ask, and that is why rubbish is beautiful.