I have never practiced sentimental acts like filling a shoebox full of memories, compiling a photograph book, or keeping notes written to me. There is something that twists in me when I come across an item that reminds me of any time that occurred 12 months prior to that moment. When I toss such memories like rubbish in the waste bin, it is as if I removed old moth eaten scarves from the recesses of a closet. Even the most cherished recollections are delicate to the nameless part of me which devours them. There are only some reminiscences that I willingly wrap around my neck and walk out into the cold in. What makes the fabric of those few untainted by inevitable ruin is unknown to me. At times I know the very moment I am in will not withstand damage in a small number of months. Something in me is urgently striking the delete button.
