Letting Go

The floor is littered with the treasures and meaninglessness of the past. Things that I have no emotional connection to—at all—but have clung to for so long: a mess of day-to-day memories of what I was.

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.