I’ve always collected things. Gifts and concert tickets and sea-shells and old books. And sad things. Beautiful, fragile things that are so ephemeral. I’ve tried to preserve them, to suspend them in time. Teardrops, and dream-remnants and memories of happier times. Melancholy and nostalgia. Clocks that only strike thirteen and mirrors with broken reflections. Pressed flowers, that will never wither, but will never be quite alive either.
I wanted to capture rain and your cigarette smoke as it came out through your lips. I wanted to protect those old, handwritten love letters before the ink faded completely.
And I keep the nightingale’s voice inside a glass jar next to bottles filled up with inner-storms.
I have heart-lockets filled with promises kept safely in the deep of my room, so they can never break them.
Sepia photographs of young people smiling that I don’t recognize – echoes of past times, now collecting dust.
A candle-wax sunset is dripping on the floor like fireflies: silently, silently. The world will end with a whimper, just like Eliot said, and this is all that will remain. A collection of who we were and who we wish we were.