My improv team went over to the house of one of our members (Ryan) for dinner tonight, since he lives five minutes away from campus. His house smelled like the house everyone went for sleepovers as a kid. There were tons of tiny glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling of his bedroom, which contained an alcove window seat (for staring moodily out into the calm, lamplit street), lots of collections of coins and bobbleheads, and various other childhood treasures. There was a treehouse in the backyard, complete with a hand crank for transporting objects from the ground. It was the ideal suburban home.
Seeing his cheerfully cluttered bedroom, so full of memories, made me long for something I felt like I'd never had. A cool room? But I've had some pretty neat ones. What was it that was so bittersweet?
When I got back to my dorm room, it hit me. I finally realized why it feels like I have so much more stuff on my shelves than my roommate. I actually do. It's the same reason my room back home always feels clean in a bad way; too uncluttered and vague.
I don't have any memories there. I take my history with me. Ryan had lots of college stuff in his high school bedroom because he can go back anytime he wants. I've learned to take everything with me to my next dwelling. I have little bits of all the important parts of my life crammed into half of a tiny dorm room, because in my world, you don't go back. You only go forward.
I keep telling myself I'm going to downsize before I go to England in September, and only bring a few essential framed photos and decorative items. But am I just kidding myself? Maybe it's not possible for me to leave too many things behind. I'll fit all my memories into one room, but you won't be able to find them all at first glance- because I'll do my best to make believe that my life is cheerfully cluttered.
It's the same way I pack luggage; small, but dense. I will fit everything into one carry-on suitcase, but that suitcase may just be ten pounds over the weight limit.
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