Yesterday, I went home to tidy out my bedroom.
A bedroom is such a special place. Which is why I can't honestly call this room my bedroom. It is more of a room full of all the stuff that I didn't take to university.
My old bedroom, the one I had for years, was a true true bedroom. Deep purple and lilac on the walls, my very first double bed, the crooked Vogue cut outs on the walls, the wicker chair and the blow up lion, my floor covered in nail varnish stains and clothes, Gundy.
And then I was moved. Displaced. Forced to leave without my consent. Heartbroken. Thrown in to a room that was not mine, a mere container of things once important.
But I think you find that maybe you move along with it. Plenty of things I found in plenty of boxes yesterday which obviously at that time meant something. Old, crusty roses, love letters from those I thought I loved, random bottle tops and bracelets, champagne corks with no date or purpose. All these things were important enough for me to keep at one point.
And now, I just don't remember why I loved them. Things like that were so easy to throw away, they had lost the meaning I had given them, my head and heart now too full of new trinkets to act as reminders to old days.
But still, there are things I cling to. Birthday cards which contain stark reminders of how friendships change, toys which played the role of best friends, medals and certificates and newspaper articles and letters and a million other things that I just couldn't bring myself to get rid of. Because I think that you realise that those things, they are reminders of how you got to where you are. They remind you of why you are the way you are. They can remind you of past lives, seemingly so distant from the one you are living now, but so internal to you, so ingrained in your being and painfully, so easily forgotten.
And I like being reminded.
