But that's just it, they're all things. Made in factories or in my elementary art class. It's funny how we can get so emotionally attached to these material items. Especially when they are stored away in boxes, placed on shelves, thinking their only purpose is to collect dust for the next ten years.
But it is enjoyable. To take it all out. Let it breath. Look through it and let it stir your memory. Let nostalgia fall onto the room like a dense morning mist on the southwestern coast. Without these material artifacts, I would have forgotten all about a lot of happenings in my life. So really, they truly are of immense importance. Serving as reminders to my childhood, to things I was once proud of, what I have achieved. Books filled with my thoughts, emotions, and memories. Not only am I reminded of my childhood, but the person that I once was. How I have changed. Thing that were catastrophically important to me when I was 12 are so insignificant to what I cared about when I was 15, which are the polar opposite of what I care about now. I recognize from my writings how easily swayed I had become. Who knows when I changed. Maybe it was gradual. S'pose it just came in one swoop and I didn't even recognize it. I guess what matters it that I did change.
I feel that a big part of saving all this is because we're scared to forget. I don't want to ever forget what it's like to be a kid. To run through the street barefoot or swim in the ocean. To be dirty and silly and spontaneous. To use my imagination and to still laugh at things, like flatulence.
No comments:
Post a Comment