Take a deep breath and think about something with such deep hope for humanity and the world. Anything, just one thing, meant to last as long as humanly possible. Can you?
Remember when that was the measurement of commitment? A young lover with courage and some savings, buying the most valuable diamond ring he could afford in his 30s. Best case scenario, he inherited a family relic, waiting for the right loved one to pass it on to. "Would you like to marry me?" he would say, as his whole life passed through his mind in a second. Let's be together until we die, let's have as many kids as our economy and religion allow us to, let's build a lineage, let's have grandkids, let's buy a house or even a property for all our future generations to thrive and live happily till the end of time, a self-made working-class dynasty. And that diamond ring will travel along with them.
Until it doesn't.
Until it reaches a great-grandson who doesn't believe in marriage.
One who sells it because he needs the money.
One who doesn't recognize the difference between gold, plated gold, brass, and silver.
There was a moment when the acquisition of new goods was informed by the idea that they would be passed down. Holding the responsibility of caring for those items and making space to keep them, having the knowledge to know what's worth investing in and the wisdom, or even pragmatism, to know when to stop. Now, owning property is no longer a middle-class right, we buy cheap, modular, or disposable, just good enough for today. Nothing stays with us for so long, we resell, we donate, we switch from trends and styles, always looking for the next thing, the next upgrade.
How does one buy for forever?
I wish I could say I'm the kind of person who can distinguish between long-lasting cashmere and soft-to-the-touch, short-fiber Uniqlo cashmere. I'm not knowledgeable enough to acquire good-quality objects across every single category, and even when I believe I do, I'm schooled by life that I don't. I will never forget the day I bought Prada shoes for 40 euros on Vinted and they just disintegrated on my feet the first time I wore them. That sent me down a rabbit hole about rubber, how long it lasts and under which conditions. There was no way back, they were gone forever. I never really think about forever when I add something to my cart, or when I decide to add 10 new songs from my Discovery Weekly to my liked playlist. I double think when buying a vinyl, CD, or T-shirt, do I have space to keep that? The answer doesn't have to be yes, I can always make some space for more, nothing is permanent. I guess I never really think about it that much, and I'm not sure why I should.
I still remember hours scrolling on LimeWire, downloading every single song I wanted to have on my iPod. Even deciding the quality of the sound since it would impact how many songs I would be able to hold. So much intentionality just to own a digital pirate copy of "Just Dance" by Lady Gaga. This ritual would repeat until I collected many amazing genres and artists, all up to the day Apple Music dropped and I was promised a magical sync that would transform my pirated versions into a streaming library I would now "own."
Both arrived at the same time: the rise of music streaming and the death of the iPod.
Not long ago I stumbled upon a community of people online going back to their iPod Classics, modding, hacking, and upgrading them, mainly as a rejection of the mindless consumption of today's media. They promise a long life if you replace the battery and, every five years or so, swap the hard drive. Then it all clicked for me. We went back to the last piece of technology that felt valuable precisely because of what it couldn't do. Its value was not defined by its resale price, or its material, but its limitations, the lack of ads, every song and album intentionally chosen.
Isn't that what modern heirlooms are? An identity locket that holds audio, video, and three games. Its survival depends on both Apple and its own community finding a way to maintain it.
Forever for the iPod is not a given, it involves community and care in the shape of batteries and technological support. Inheriting one, if you care, turns you into an active participant in maintaining it. The heirlooms of the future will still require knowledge, space, and emotional connection, but mainly they will demand more from you for their survival, and in that small action of care, every battery replacement becomes a promise of forever, or a wish for forever to exist so your favorite songs and memories always have a metallic place to hold them.