Obsessive hoarder

It’s a part of human nature to develop associations pertaining to their individual preferences and tastes. One just cannot simply chalk out a well-tailored catalogue of associations, but there are certain general trends of forming associations. Some people feel associated with the place they were born, some with their schools or colleges, some with their professions and a few with their friends. After some time when one comes out of the direct influence of one’s associations, one is only left with memories. Based on associations, memories provide opportunities to relive those times which made one smile or cry. When one can afford to be a prototype of one’s own self, not of someone else one can indulge these fond associations and keep them closer in life. Memories are those golden tablets which encapsulates the odds and evens of our past life. After several moons, last night I managed to sneak out some time to relive my past. I opened the cabinets of my room where every important thing of my life resides. How paradoxical is the fact that I invested long tiring decades of my life to develop associations and to collect memories which now lie neglected in a few cabinets. It seems my whole past life is worth of being ‘cabinetnised’ and nothing more or less than that. These mementos are the measure of units of memories to me.

Books, greeting cards, pictures, stupid graffities, all, are my ticket to the amusement park of my memory which fascinates me, strengthens me and makes me feel good. I cried in my heart when I remember the times when I had laughed my heart out and I smile remembering the moments when I had cried.
I dragged out the big album of my family and friends, my most treasured possession where I can see and feel different occasions of my life; when I was a few months old; when I joined school; my school trips and hanging out with friends, everything was there visually present, shot in pictures. Every picture has its own story, language and moment.
Further I started rearranging the countless greeting cards of my family and friends. Every card makes me believe in dreams like Paulo Coelho with several reassurances of “Friends forever” and “Missing you”. All is gone and it seems to be the story of some bygone, extinct species of humanity who once lived.
I than turned towards my book cabinet and started rediscovering the lost meanings and idealism in all those books that fascinated me once. Life doesn’t leave me an idealist anymore, but still I liked the times when I was an idealist. My books are part of my idealistic self which I have buried years ago, but still I feel happy to recall that phase of myself. Because at this late hour of night, no one is around me, no one is demanding something practical or professionally from me, so I am alone with my lost, forgotten self, whom I can visit only through my memories as I am still an obsessive hoarder of memories.

Photo Courtesy: Little balls by Jason Aaberg