It’s a fact. I’ve always known it but been too stubborn to admit it. I have a hard time letting go the things I like and an let’s not talk about the things I ever come to love.
“You ever feel like when you met someone, they fill this hole inside of you, and then when they’re gone… you feel that space painfully vacant?”
Apparently I’m a collector. A collector of memories. A collector of lovers. A collector of bad dreams. I’m a collector of all the things that made me happy, of all the things that made me cry. I’m a collector of passions, of dreams. I’m a collector of unfulfilled goals. A collector of books, blank notebooks and pens (all types of pens).
Anyone who knows me well enough knows that I’ve been collecting all this stuff. I can’t let go. But no one will collect a memory of me, not unless I do something worth collecting.
So I’ve decided to throw everything that is no longer useful. Everything that reminds me of a bad thing. I’ll stop collecting nightmares and keep collecting smiles.
Goodbye to you, that made me feel unworthy.