Three Things I Can't Live Without

From childhood I dreamed of being able to keep with me all the objects in the world lined up on my shelves and bookcases. I denied lack, oblivion, or even the likelihood of a missing piece. Order streamed from me in blue triangles and as the pure fury of my classifications rose around me, engulfing my life, they came to be called waves by other, who drowned, a world of them.

It is odd how I’ve been drawn to collecting memorabilia and books and mix CDs for the past eight years of my life. Speaking of memorabilias, they are presently inside a cardboard box, generously covered by dust and cobwebs under my shabby bed away from pests (that’s metaphorical and literal). They are just there; they are just hidden in the recesses of my room. When I’m having some emotional predicament, particularly if I am missing things and people, I would flip it open and I wouldn’t necessitate a chocolate or ice cream to comfort me anymore.

Books. Book sale books that is. Whenever I have the time, money and the conviction, I go shopping for old, second hand books though you must have the endurance of excavating books for only one-tenths of the books in there are let’s say commendable books. But always I go out of the store with fulfillment, excited to flick through the pages of the piece I bought. Always though, money is deficient. So to not hurt your delicate feelings, opt not to enter National Bookstore. It’s just that the big smiley face you’re wearing going inside the store will be spoiled out by the hefty price tags attached to the most desired, the most fascinating, the remarkably out of the ordinary books. You’ll get out of the store, maybe empty handed and broken hearted too. So take hid.

The thing fired up in high school when I discovered mp3 files and compact disc burning. It then altered into a craving, to obsession. Now I have like twenty-two mix CDs, some of them have scratches already, few of them is not readable anymore, but most of them still give me ultimate pleasure by creeping the atmosphere with my favorite tunes. It is my habit to relieve stress by pumping music so loud from the component system, jumping insanely, tapping my fingers on table tops, mimicking guitar heroes, sing uncaringly, sometimes with my little brother with me. We would dance and sing like it’s the end of the world tomorrow.

My collection means a world to me, or if not, they make my world. Whenever I see them it’s like the sensation of airplane takeoff. I am happy seeing them piling, arranged into shelves or stacked into corners. I am happy because when I get bored, there’s something I could see, read and hear. I am glad that a song could tell who I was and what I liked, seeing how my taste changed dramatically over the years. I am pleased to realize through my books that I am a classic kind of lady, for I am reading mostly timeless classics and richly textured books. I am happy to see myself treasuring my past, though most of them are not there anymore. How I value frayed photographs and letters and documents and gifts.

Sometimes this is how I feel. You can never know enough, never work enough, never use the infinitives and participles oddly enough, never impede the movement harshly enough, never have money enough, but then who needs enough when a little of these please this down-to-earth girl with big dreams already.