Of Memories

I get very emotionally attached to the weirdest things.  It's weird; I have a shampoo and conditioner set that I rarely use (even though I'm almost out by now) for the simple reason that the first time I used it was when I was in Barcelona last year.  I have a face wash that I'm the exact same with, as well as a perfume.

There's even a music album that I absolutely adore that I haven't listened to in over a year for the simple reason that the last time I listened to it I was getting off the plane at the airport in El Prat, was waiting to go through security, and was on the train on my way into the city.  I refuse to listen to it again until I can find a moment that's adequate.  I doubt I'm going to find it, but I'm holding out.

The truth is, I don't hoard things.  I hoard memories.  Most of the crap that I have is actually meaningless to me, save for a few things that have sentimental value because of where I got them/who gave them to me.  I can fit most of my belongings, my valuable belongs anyway, the things I couldn't live without, into one suitcase.  This is perfect for my plan to actually move back to Europe one day.  Honestly, the most important things I have...I have in my head.  I do keep some of them locked in songs, albums or even scents (for example, the perfume Chance by Chanel...will never not remind me of Bilbao, simply because I wore it a lot while I was there last summer), but in general, they're in my head.

I am a bit of a pack rat, I admit it; I hate throwing things away.  But one of the things I have noticed about myself though is that eventually, I don't care if whatever object it is gets thrown away or lost.  Important things I keep with me at all times; I know exactly where they are and they're impossible to lose.  But in general, the things I'm terrified of losing the most are the memories I have in my head.  The memories I get when I'm about to hop in the shower and I think of the automatic faucet at the hostel in Barcelona that caused so many unknown roommates and floormates grief because they couldn't figure out how the damned things worked.  The times I wake up in the morning and have to rub my eyes again because I could have sworn I was still in my best friend's apartment in Algorta.  The time I pick up a tube of mascara and think "Oh, R gave that to me in New York City right before I left for Spain!"

It's the little things.  The meaningless, worthless things that mean most to me, the little things that trigger memories or thoughts of things I can't have right now, but with a little patience, I could most likely have again.