Tarnish is already happening.

There is nothing new under the sun.

I worked at a startup for a few years.

Because startups worship at the altar of Apple, the day they released all their new products with Steve Jobs (and then Tim Cook) parading around on stage with a little skin-toned cordless ear mic—the precursor to the TED talk—was a high religious holiday.

I have a Windows PC and use Android. I didn’t really care.

So as the “ooh!” and “aaah!” rolled in and the intra-office HipChat flooded with comments on the latest thing that was unveiled and people shared links to Twitter posts gushing about the latest, a similarly disinterested co-worker sent a chat out into the gushing office feed.

“Shiny new object is shiny, new.”

That was the best nut shelling I’ve ever seen.

I’ve been feeling distinct sadness in the past few years.

It’s not just because the nation is crumbling and the world is imploding and deception reigns and Christians are falling into the New Age. It’s because I can see the shiny new objects for what they are.

Transitory.

Soon-to-tarnish.

Collecting dust.

Falling apart.

Out of warranty.

Dying.

I still turn on a barely-holds-a-charge smartphone that’s over four years old. I have a vehicle that’s 30 years old. I have clothes in my dresser that I still wear that are 25 years old. I have pens and pencils I used in high school, and books I read as a child.

I like what I have. I don’t want new stuff. What I have are known entities. They’re worn in. I’m used to them. I know what to expect from them. I already own them. They cost me nothing.

Advertising worked it’s magic when I was younger, strumming the cords of discontent and selling me on wanting the next new thing. But now it doesn’t work the same.