Portrait

there is nothing better or more useful to do with a mess than clean it up.

i’m one for memories. i like looking at old things and getting a little sad, a little nostalgic for everything that has changed reasonably with time. i keep a lot of things that i don’t need and that result in my room being cluttered with a lot of history stashed away in dusty corners. under the bed, in the drawers, in the space between the drawers. every little nook and cranny has done it’s share in concealing and keeping things that are sacred to me from a long time ago. things that can make me remember at one glance, things that can make me cry at one touch.

it occasionally becomes time to get rid of these things, they only take up space and collect dust. i enjoyed their presence once, looking at them longingly, running my fingers alongside the ridges of letters, photographs and cards, wiping away the dust on little, useless tokens, souvenirs.

i am not throwing it all away hastily, flippantly and bitterly. i have had time enough with them now, i feel fulfilled by the kind of life they remind me i had, and i am ready to move on, to have new things take their place.

i discard all my sweet valley highs and R.L stines willingly. i am amused at how well they enterntained me, and grateful also for the maturing in my taste in books. i replace them gladly with my shakespeares, austens, my greek texts, my cult favourites, alex garland’s the beach, s.p somtow’s vanitas, a few mad magazines, a cheap copy of the godfather, all the books that belong to him, all the books that i want to share with him.

i discard so many of my clothes, little, skimpy things that i not only don’t fit into anymore but things that just make me feel like the child i used to be when i wore them. i replace them with things that i’ve chosen to be the representative of my identity over the past year. things i’ve borrowed, bought and come to own (stolen).

i discard so many little bits of paper, so many notes of love from people that hate me now, letters of admiration from people i barely speak to anymore, birthday cards from people whose birthday i have never in my life remembered to acknowledge. i keep the cards from london, the notes i’m passed in class that have gotten me into trouble numerous times, the things that make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

i discard so many things that are in my room that don’t belong to me. my brother’s old post-it notes, the remnants of all the pairs of my mother’s earrings that i’ve lost over time, slippers that broke and files that snapped. i, fondly, keep the little things i find that i will still need, desh’s pink lighter, asvajit’s rolling papers, D’s eye liner, my haggard figurine of the blue powerpuff girl.

i clean and clean relentlessly, desperate to banish old ghosts and let in new memories. i sort and throw and pile, wanting badly to let go of things and people that i’ve held on to for so long. i sift and filter, knowing that i can only keep what i truly want, things i truly need.

finally, i take what’s been flung out my door and burn them. i find they take up less space that way. i watch the pile burn and burn, till it’s nothing but a pile of ashes.