If you walk through the woods with a child, you’ll notice their pockets growing fuller as the trip progresses. Children do not possess the ability to simply pass by that perfectly-crusty, mostly-filthy rock, or that lovely, tiny, twisted twig, or that deliciously slimy weird thing (what is it?). They must pick it up and carry it along, with the hopes of forever keeping that small, beautiful thing. They somehow understand the immense meaning in the existence of a single created object. How it is meant to thrill, to satisfy, to create longing for more.
This part of me has yet to grow up. I still find myself completely enthralled by all those small, beautiful things…. only now they are words and pictures and books. But mostly words. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been collecting them. In my basement are boxes filled with bits of magazine scraps. They tell the story of my entire high school existence… single, tiny pieces, torn carefully from the pages of Teen Vogue or Elle magazine, some with no more than a word or two, some taped or glued together to spell out the agonies of my teenage heart, all treasured too much to be tossed.
Though ctrl x and ctrl v are much less romantic ways of cutting and pasting, I still can’t fight the urge to gather my beautiful finds into one (albeit cyber) beautiful place. Here it is.