My memories are the building blocks of my history. - March 8th, 2022
Gasping for air I struggled to breathe. My throat constricted. Hot tears rolled as I whimpered, choked...
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
My sneakers rhythmically hit the pavement, the only other sound interrupting the quiet stillness.
"Of course!" I thought, throwing my head back and smiling at the stars. "Of COURSE I don't have to get rid of it... ANY of it!"
An uncontrollable whimper choked out of me. I heaved laboriously, desperately sucking in air, catching my breath.
"My stuff matters..." I gasped.
It was as if a tornado had touched down, snatched up my torment and flung it in a thousand directions. Releasing me.
I laughed with relief, shaking my head. I write to remember. To acknowledge. Grow and evolve. I always have. If it's not written, it's gone. Like a story without an ending... without closure.
In that instant, I realized I am the historian of my existence.
I breathed in my surroundings with resolute. The breezy Spring air surfed my skin as I ran through the softening darkness of a new morning.
I thought about my neglected memories. Mourned them. My face contorted, my eyes burned. A whimper squeaked out.
Bus tickets, credit card receipts, travel itinerary lists, plane tickets, theatre booklets, brochures, souvenirs and trinkets, all shoved into a box. Hundreds of photos still in envelopes. A trip of a lifetime ignored and forgotten. Collecting dust for over two decades.
Experiences that I never truly shared with family and friends. I just got on with it. With life. Got married, settled down, fell in line.
A significant part of my life, unacknowledged. Dismissed. Like it was no big deal. But it was a BIG deal...
"I'm keeping it ALL!" I decided. Vowing to end my decluttering guilt.
I clenched my jaw with grit and stepped up my pace. The sky now turning a gentle pinkish hue.
My memorabilia is not clutter. That trip literally changed the course of my life. It is my very own collection of untold stories...
That one day, I intend to tell.