The Collector

Came across this on one of the blogs i follow, luluandyourmom. I've probably followed her for over a few years now. I came across her blog on a forum once, intrigued by her fashion and become more intrigued by the little bits of her life she did share and her thoughts. Thought this was something special, and it's inspiring me to write more and maybe post a little of old bits i've written before that definitely are not nearly as well written.
the collector

His place was like a museum. There was so much art everywhere. I went upstairs to use the bathroom. More art wrapped up in paper. "Careful not to touch anything," I told myself. Then I tripped on a vacuum cleaner... damn.

I was his object.

In the morning, I woke up next to him; it felt nice to be close. I noticed he put up a new painting. Pretty. I watched him get ready to take a shower; a cue for me to get dressed.

On my way out, he asked me, "How's your life?" to which I responded by looking away. He asked me again, "How's your life?"

"It's fine," I said.

Except it wasn't fine.

"I read your Facebook. The one about the girl in the New York Times. It was funny."

I couldn't remember what he was talking about. He was reading up on me. But I was right here.

"Are those shoes new?"

I wore them on our first date.

"Did you cut your hair?"

Like a month ago.

Collectors are like that. They don't have to interact with their beloved objects all the time. It's just... there. And every now and then they take an interest, but otherwise, there's no upkeep. His life was like a museum. Well curated. But poorly kept.

My Heart Yearns For Adventure

Once in awhile I let my mind wander. It's always this one scenario I play out in my head.


I'm at the airport with one small suitcase in my hand, a backpack on and smile on my face. I pull the world map out of my backpack and stare at it for a second. I close my eyes and drop my finger on the map. My eyes open and I see my finger on the Red Sea. Well that won't do. I close my eyes and twirl my finger once again and my finger lands. I open my eyes. Australia. My next destination. I take my life savings and buy a one way ticket to Australia. I would stay there for 6 months, find a nice host family to stay with while I work odd jobs such as waitressing to pay my rent and meals. I would wander the city, see the sights, embrace myself in the culture and meet people of all sorts. After embracing each place i've inhabited and just about settled in, I would up and move on to the next. It would take me 6 months till I would pull out the map once again, close my eyes and choose a new place. And then after another 6 months repeat the process, repeatedly till my heart is content. Without a home, living from paycheck to paycheck, I would be like a hobo of the world. I would wander the world God created, see His creations. I would be a free spirit just learning about life itself and experiencing the beauty and darkness it holds.Could you imagine all the different types of people i'd meet, the stories i'd have?

But then my mind comes back and I remember the things I must accomplish here too. I'll just have to find my own adventure here to pacify my heart.

Simply Forgotten

There it was. Just like any other day I was getting ready in the morning while listening to my upbeat, girly, guilty pleasure music itunes playlist. Except unlike any other day, I noticed it. I had completely forgotten about it. Looking at myself in the mirror, my eyes widened in half surprise and half unfamiliarity. It was as though I were rummaging through a box of keepsakes and stumbled upon a forgotten item, a strange mix of familiarity and foreignness. I ran my finger over it and felt the uneven scar. The touch felt so foreign to me. For as long as I can remember i've had this fairly small but visible scar. In fact it's been so long that I actually have absolutely no recollection of when or how it happened. The earliest memory I have of it is me asking my mom how I got the scar. Even the memory of that is a bit hazy. I think my mom told me I was a little girl when it happened; I was running and tripped on the cement. Simple enough right? I always wished a crazier story had happened, like I was a little girl rushing to save a baby bird falling from a tree and in the process tripped on the tree roots. Or a man tried to kidnap me with a knife but I fought my way out of his hold but in the midst of the epic fight, the knife had left a scar. But nope, I was running on the cement and tripped. I wonder how fast was I running. I wonder how big the scar was when I was a little girl because it's been years and it seems to never have shrunk. I wonder why it never healed like the other scars I got as a child, scars that I actually remember getting. I wonder if it hurt. I wonder if I cried when it happened. I like to think that I didn't cause you know, I probably was a very tough little girl. I like to think of a lot of things. I wonder why I don't remember.

Very rarely does anyone notice my scar. Hell, it's been years since i've even noticed it. It's strange to live with a scar without any memory of the incident or the pain that may have had come with it. Sometimes it feels as though forgotten memories are secrets our subconscious keep from us. But hey, that's just sounds like crazy talk.

A Simple Story

A boy walks down the street; he passes by a whole bed of flowers. Flowers were God's creation to bless the world, to bring people happiness. Each flower is unique. God created each flower to have its own worth, beauty and purpose in the world. One specific flower catches this boy's eye for a moment, it is a rose almost about to bloom. Its beauty and scent entrances him for a moment and in that moment, he decides to pick the rose. He is no florist, he is no gardener, he does not harness the skills to care for this rose, but caught in the moment, those thoughts are pushed aside and he stands there holding the rose in his hand admiring it. He continues to walk down the street, holding the rose up smiling at the way the sunlight hits it's red petals, the way the scent slowly wafts and surrounds him. The rose is his and he is happy. Instant gratification has taken place.

Further down his walk, the rose without proper care such as trimming the stem and water, starts to wilt. The boy notices and his happiness slowly starts to dissolve. He tries at first to care for the flower, but he is no florist, he is no gardener, he is a boy. He does not possess the passion and enough love to care for this rose. The boy stares at the rose for a second and decides the best decision is to throw the rose away. The initial excitement, the moment of entrancement has long gone. The rose lays on the sidewalk, further wilting.

Picking up the flower, he did not know the full responsibility that came with the flower. There are many flowers out there and this is just one among the many. Had the boy left the rose in its place, the rose could've been admired by other passer byers. The gardener could have taken care of it in its garden and allowed it to fully blossom. The florist could have cultivated the rose and placed it in a gorgeous bouquet for someone to truly admire its beauty. It could have fully bloomed and reached its full potential. The rose was meant for greater things in this world, but that one boy who couldn't keep his hands to himself, took that rose away from that. He didn't think about the greater picture, he couldn't care for the rose the way it needed to be cared for. He was just a boy. And the rose lays wilting on the sidewalk.

But the beauty of it all is that God can make all things and people new again.