“Things”

I used to hoard a bunch of “things”

From book and pens to notes and strings

Presents from others and birthday gifts

They all meant a great deal to me

I’d keep them in my little box

A box hidden from plain sight

Opened gifts were never used

For I couldn’t bear to pity their plight

But now that I’m older, that feeling fades

“Things” no longer carried sentiments.

As I threw out the “things” in my little box

My heart no longer breaks

I do still remember the “things” in the box

Like that one notebook somebody bought

A souvenir from a gift shop

The only “thing” I never tossed

I guess I see a part of me

Hidden in its blank pages

As I flip through the book

Reading between the lines

I longed to find the part of me

That I’d lost years ago

The part of me filled with memories

From my childhood now old

Currently I sit in my room

Clicking on a pen

The ink drains from its cartridge

And slowly flows down with gravity

Like a river leading to the ocean

Blue spilled onto the notebook

The once empty page

Finally gains its colour

When the pen stops

The page would be torn

And crumpled

And binned

For every piece destroyed

Fear in me would rise

I didn’t want to lose

The last sense of attachment

But I watched as the last page

Lands into the overflowing trash can

And I held the empty book spine

Tightly in my hands

Realisation hit me. Hard.

I wasn’t scared of vanishing sentiment

I was afraid that with the last “thing”,

I’d lose myself too