My mother collected pieces of people: childhood drawings and A-grade term papers. Collecting dust until they were made into a yearly shrine, far in a corner.
My father collected pieces of things: musical instruments and video discs. Collecting dust until they were previewed by hungry eyes and hands.
And I, I collected everything—for fear (horrible fear!) that I might turn back into what I was.
As each of them scorned the other's collections, so I scorn myself. For I want everything and I want nothing.
Still, I imagine that I am not far from discovering what is truly meaningful. And soon I will no longer need to carry all this weight of the past upon my neck.
