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memories
I went back home yesterday and actually slept in my bed for the first time in a few months. Looking at the place… it’s a mess. Nothing is organized, there’s tons of stuff on a desk I never used… books just thrown together to form some semblance of organization. But there is no direction in my room at all. I never took the time to really decorate or put anything together, and I wonder why that is. A lot of people have awesome rooms, and there’s a real sense of personality when someone walks into it.
I don’t think I ever valued that notion, there is nothing here that really gives me a sense of who I had been when I was living here. It reminds me of the photo discussion that I recently had in class, and how photos illicit the reconstruction of the memory leading to and after that photo. What was I doing before this room turned out this way… what do all these things really mean? If this room was a snapshot… it would be underexposed and underdeveloped. If my memories aren’t here, where are they?
I think that if anything, I buried my memories in people for better or worse. I talk to and see Betty a lot, so I can recall tons of things. Halloween hijinx, awkward dances, days where we just sat in the car and talked for hours… but she is one of few people that connect my past to my present. Consciously and subconsciously I’ve made decisions that have put other people that I have memories vested in far away from me… and it’s all become blurry. Without these people I don’t have any recollection of who or how I came to be who I am today, and the notion is daunting.
“I am the combined effort of everybody I’ve ever known.”
Chuck Palahniuk - some awful depressing book
