Lost Things

I got a little sentimental last weekend when our home was finally sold. Not that I minded the sale; I was eager to move to my spanking new apartment after all. But somewhere deep down inside, it hurt to say goodbye to this familiar place where I grew up in, the safest and warmest I've known so far, for a good twenty-odd years.

At this point, I've got to admit that I am a sucker for old things. Books, clothes, jewellery, furniture, anything. You'd find me happiest thrifting at a surplus shop. Even when I buy new items, I like them to look like they have been used forever. I would try to wear and tear down my belongings as soon as I lay my hands on them. My motto: The tattier, the better! I'm absolutely not a leave-that-film-protector-on-my-cellphone/digicam/Ipod-to-prevent-scratches kinda girl. Instead, I leave clear, deep impressions on my stuff like how animals scent-mark their territory, as if to say, "IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE!!!"

Maybe it's prehistorical human instinct and I'm just less evolved, but I prefer to think of it as an affectionate attachment to my belongings. To me, used items have the ubiquitous quality of being exceptional. No two are the same. New things start off looking bland and characterless, but over time, moments add up and relationships develop between men and their things. Then one day, they become precious. Precious with lots of memories. And I dig memories.

So, I'm an oldie and I like my things ancient. That's why I'm feeling rather melancholic about the loss of my old abode. I'll miss viewing the brilliant sunset colors out of the creaky old window. I'll miss looking up at the uneven plastered ceiling when I'm lying sleepless in bed. Most of all, I'll miss being able to come up to the door step and just step right into my "home".

The precious thing is no longer mine.