I like to collect things. It’s a habit, I know. My wallet stuffed with bus tickets, train tickets, cinema slips, receipts and foreign currencies and little of any legal tender.
Each with their own apparently insignificant story but what is not apparent is that each carries a significant sentiment. I should make a scrapbook really or a collage but to everyone else my habits are strange, a fetish or a farce.
People might collect stamps, they might enjoy it too. People might collect war memorabilia, comics but me, why I collect crap?
No, I collect memories. Each of these scrapes of paper hold a memory of me regardless of how the world might view them. These bits of slips are a testament to my continuing existence, the memory is never enough, relegated to some obscure part of the mind, I like to bolster it with a memento or two.
It gives me great pleasure, from time to time, to empty the contents of my wallet, all the scraps of paper, faded, smudged or torn, dog-eared and I pick through my items, and settle on a memory I would like to revive, to reminisce and to quench my nostalgia.
Times and dates, my location in print. There’s something reassuring in knowing where you were, that you were.
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