Lately I’ve been gazing at the relics of past life, and imagined life. Ordinary things like ticket stubs, wristbands, and receipts can take on an almost sacred preciousness when they belong to a day or a night that you cannot bear to leave behind. I keep them with me in my room, surrounding myself in old feelings, playing the music that makes me think old thoughts. I don’t know what or who I am really nostalgic for – mostly I am just restless. I feel like there is some kind of obvious fate inside me, because of who I am, that I am simply not smart enough to comprehend. As if my own nature has decided my future for me, and because I cannot escape my nature, I cannot escape it. The past becomes a safe place to live when you are afraid of yourself in this way.
For the last two months I’ve had a wristband from a rave I went to tucked inside my wallet. While I was there, wearing it, I had no idea what I would do with it – I didn’t think about it. But now, contemplating the journey that that greying, frayed paper bracelet has been on makes my head spin. The man who tied it to my arm had no idea of what it would come to mean to me, or where it would go - likewise the person who made it. It had no innate significance (does anything?). It makes me wonder about all the things I have sent out into the world, everything I have given away, or sold, or lost. What happened to them all? Where did they go? Did they ever mean anything to someone? Did someone who loved me ever keep something I threw away, just because it was mine? I wish that we could know what happens to things after they leave our peripheral vision. Or that we could know its future before we discarded it. If we could, we would see such a perfect, cruel, and beautiful design, I think. It seems natural, and yet still so unfair, that all our lives should be connected by these objects that pass from hand to hand - and that we can hold on to them for as long as we wish, but not to each other.