hoarding ephemera 'til the end times
Somewhere, I still have the collectible lanyards and early-access passes from the first year I'd attended the Vans Warped Tour. I sit at my desk, staring at an old birthday card, a plush Chococat won in a crane game in Shinjuku, and an expired Metrocard; all tacked onto a bulletin board. These are just a small sampling of the physical items I have chosen to keep in plain sight. Items that I'd argue "spark joy".
In the living room, my diploma hangs sideways, having come loose behind the frame's mat. My ticket from the Whitney Museum's Warhol exhibition from a few years back remains pinned to the wall beside my bed. I keep an old Powerpuff Girls (Buttercup) manual pencil sharpener by my desktop monitor. I only recently tossed the Bobby Jack throw blanket my family surprised me with, when I came home from a first day of school one year.
This accumulation of stuff is evidence that I once tried attempted to be the chief architect of my own happiness. Things that prove that I at least tried.
Walking through my grandmother's house, gazing at the cabinets filled top to bottom with Precious Moments figurines, I'm reminded that we can't take the material world with us when we die. Regardless, we all die, still.
The women in my family taught me everything I ever needed to know about archival studies. We are our collections: Eclectic, sprawling, worth preserving, always on display. Always depreciating in value.