Objects never mean anything to me, but sometimes they mean everything. I still have hand written notes I passed to my friends in high school and I still hold onto my dead dog's collar. I've collected rare stickers and have promised myself I would never stick them onto anything just yet. I've kept every handwritten card my family and friends have ever given to me. If my house was burning I would grab all my photo albums, fuck the rest. I can't let go of the past. This collection of things makes no sense when I piece them together. I don't always know why I've held onto these specific things, but I can't let them go. Maybe it's because for me they are symbols of time, memories, and people. They are extensions of myself. When I feel lost, my memories hold me together. I haven't changed since birth. I still listen to the same 10 songs. The lyrics mean everything to me. I wrote them on the desks, chairs and tables. This is how I make it mine. I can't throw it out. I have to keep it. 10 years just went by. I can't believe it. Or maybe I'm just bad at math. Sometimes I wonder if I've dreamt these moments. Are these little parts of me compose who I am? But who am I? And who will I become? Is this my reality? The world inside my head looks different to the one I live in. When I shift between the world inside and outside my head everything makes sense. Oftentimes, I forget I have the power to realise myself as a part of my everyday. Maybe i'm just ovulating. My everlasting search for myself in the things around me makes me human. By giving meaning to objects, it allows me to find something that exists and to not forget. The memories and beauty cannot deny their existence. The vessels into time become significant as I grow older and more nostalgic. I worry that the time behind me will never be as meaningful as the time in front. But who knows for sure. I always have my memories.