A new day in a white room. It's rather unsettling actually to see how bland my life looks from the place I live. I guess I should be used to it, every time my family moved to a new house, I was never allowed to put anything on the walls, paint or posters. The reasoning: we're just going to be moving again soon, why bother to decorate. You see, I'm a proud army brat and my father, a lieutenant colonel, raised me to be versatile and adaptive. I learned how to live on the little I had and out of boxes and bags. I learned the value of my belongings as it was the only things that I did have. To me, as a kid growing up with my dad, toys were irreplaceable. If it broke and couldn't be fixed, it was gone forever and I would miss it greatly. The things given to me by family members I held highly. Every single stuffed animal I was given throughout my life, I still have to this day, granted in a box, but they are safe and well. I learned how to stitch just to fix up the ones I preferred the most, and to keep my clothes together. The longer you can keep clothes, the less money (that you don't have) spent on buying new ones.
Right now if I went through the boxes under my bed or in my closet, I could tell you were I got each trinket and most likely from whom. I am hard pressed to throw anything out that has even the smallest meaning to me, regardless if it is useful or not. It would seem I am the type of person to do scrap-booking, but I haven't the time, nor do I take pictures (I don't own a camera, never had, I make do without).
Truthfully, I feel that if I don't save my material memories, I would forget. I would forget where I am from and what has made me the person I am today. I can't have that. I've worked too hard to hold myself together with boxes, bags and thread.
"Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing." ~ Camille Pissarro
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