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.