I cannot believe the amount of junk that I have accumulated in my room all these years. Past examination papers, torn artwork, yellowed photos, old magazines. A piece of string from a leftover birthday gift, tour itineraries from a long forgotten vacation, notebooks containing simple scribbles and plain doodles, embarrassing mix tape cassettes.
Yes – I am a serial hoarder, and I am not proud of it.
I am not quite sure how to properly pack all these things that I have owned for more than a quarter of a century. Already it is getting more and more difficult to make the cruellest cuts of them all, and have them unfairly relegated from the humble position of Mere Keepsake to Ultimate Trash.
At the same time, it is like fitting your life into brown paper boxes of various labels and sizes, to be shipped off to a destination unknown – with bits and pieces of yourself all thrown up in the air, you never know if you will be ready to have everything you need at the tip of your fingers, at the next chapter of the journey.
Are we ever ready, really?
The memories that are designed to fade; the emotions that whirl and twirl within still; the fleeting sweet smiles and big salty tears of yesteryears; sure, it is out with the old and in with the new – but we can never truly become experts in the art and science of compartmentalising our lives.