Memories outside of me...

People coming to my house for the first time, have often called it a museum. 

They walk around for a while in that small space trying absorb the individual elements. It is not a disorganized mess. No, but it does have an abundance of stimuli - sights, sounds, colors, images. It is strange to many - the amount of stuff that is present in such small quarters without being an absolute clutter. 

My dad considers it a sign of wasteful accumulation, consumerist gluttony and a materialistic lifestyle. 

I think of it as storing memories outside of me. 

I have saved a lot of my experiences in the form of tickets, pamphlets, pictures, brochures, and books. I hold onto materialistic memorabilia simply because I learnt soon enough that I couldn't trust myself to remember it all. 

These tiny fragments of my experiences: that pamphlet from the play; the pine-cone from the hike; the figurine from that trip; the snow-globe from another; the photograph from elsewhere - they all seem to serve as keys to the wonderful days, hours or moments that I have had. They help me recall my memories more faithfully and accurately than I could ever do on my own. Strange as it may seem, they are the gatekeepers to my memories of my experiences. They are the keys that help me unlock my memories as they slowly get buried behind the dusty-cobwebs of time. 

I walk into my one room, studio-esque, home and I don't find it cluttered or overwhelming. I see the home in pieces, perhaps. Things catch my attention every now and then, sporadically and in elements. A book here. A pamphlet there. A photograph somewhere. These are things that are associated with specific memories. And under moments of duress, when the chips are down, my eyes wander and lock onto one of these. 

I drift for a few moments, dust off the memory and relive it briefly. 

I experience the very same sense of awe, joy, beauty, thrill or gratitude as I had months or years ago and I am ready to step out of my microscopic view of the problem at hand. 

Through the past, I learn to step back and out, and gain a better perspective on my present. The good times, calm my nerves and restrain my anxiety. With the memory, I also recall the wonderful people associated with my life - in one way or another - and I gain that valuable outside perspective during a crisis. 

My home is perhaps a museum but everything here is a part of my story. Everything here holds a story within it. Stories, that I don't always talk about, but they are stories that prop me up, when the tide is against me. Stories of friends and family, stories of adventure, of dreams getting fulfilled and of life in all its glory. 

In some sense my home and perhaps of anyone else too, is more revealing than I could consciously ever be. 

My home may be a museum to some but to me - it is a constant reminder of the best of me. It is a reminder of the glorious potential of life when the present is overwhelming. It is that perfect amalgam when the best of my past and future come together and help me to cope with the present.