I’m a collector, but not in the physical sense of the word. I’ve never been particularly sentimental about objects. Like my bookshelf in the corner, covered head to toe in books and haphazardly strewn with cheap curios from tourist shops. Those random bits of painted wood and plastic don’t mean anything to me, it’s the memories that are bound to them that I cherish. If you were to throw my Eiffel Tower figurine away, I wouldn’t care. All of that is just stuff.

I guess you could say that I collect thoughts and memories and emotions.

My bookshelf, and every other surface of my room, is covered with books because of the emotions that were invoked while reading them. And while I wouldn’t be sad if you threw away my Eiffel Tower figurine, I would be heartbroken if you took my memories of Paris. My walls are taped with photographs because they are snapshots of times in my life that are precious to me.

All of these things, they are tied to thoughts and memories and emotions that make me who I am. They are just props in my story.



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