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Entry tags:
Collecting
I am a materialist. I am completely unashamed of this fact.
Oh, I understand intellectually when people say, dismissively, "It's just stuff," but I certainly do not understand emotionally... nor do I feel any twinge of guilt. They may be content with their memories and experiences, but those don't do much for me, as fleeting as they are. I love my stuff, in no small part because it helps me remember.
Sometimes I lie on the floor in my room and look up at my dolls and paintings and clothes and fans and such, all the pink and black stuff, and think of how much I cherish each belonging, and each friend. Customs and art, of course, but I remember this friend helped me track down this figure, or even just recommended this, or thought that was cute. I lie on my floor, looking up, and feel happy. I feel loved and at peace in my little oasis of pink. (One day I'll take pictures of everything... sure I will! I can actually remember the history of every tiny thing in there!)
Somehow, with physical objects, I can remember everything, and all the emotions in particular. Oh, if my house ever burns down, I'll live -- I'll be fine, in fact, as I'll drift through life in a vague and fuzzy fog, devoid of a past. But happily, that will most likely never happen. And I'll continue to look up and remember to feel loved.
Oh, I understand intellectually when people say, dismissively, "It's just stuff," but I certainly do not understand emotionally... nor do I feel any twinge of guilt. They may be content with their memories and experiences, but those don't do much for me, as fleeting as they are. I love my stuff, in no small part because it helps me remember.
Sometimes I lie on the floor in my room and look up at my dolls and paintings and clothes and fans and such, all the pink and black stuff, and think of how much I cherish each belonging, and each friend. Customs and art, of course, but I remember this friend helped me track down this figure, or even just recommended this, or thought that was cute. I lie on my floor, looking up, and feel happy. I feel loved and at peace in my little oasis of pink. (One day I'll take pictures of everything... sure I will! I can actually remember the history of every tiny thing in there!)
Somehow, with physical objects, I can remember everything, and all the emotions in particular. Oh, if my house ever burns down, I'll live -- I'll be fine, in fact, as I'll drift through life in a vague and fuzzy fog, devoid of a past. But happily, that will most likely never happen. And I'll continue to look up and remember to feel loved.
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I feel exactly the same way. I have a pretty bad memory, but if I see something I have from say, some random day in highschool ten years ago, like a little plastic army guy I picked up on the street, I'll remember that day, and who I was with, and what we were doing.
However, a while ago I got rid of a bunch of that pack-ratty junk. Now I just wring my hands menacingly as I plan all the things I shall collect Someday, When I Have Money Again.
no subject