I am a collector of not-so-necessary nostalgia.

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I am a connoisseur of weird in my own mind.  Yet, I am really just a collector of things unnecessary and unwanted.  I am a hoarder of nostalgia.  If I had curio cabinets, they would be filled with what-the-hecks, not whatnots.  The things of the least value illicit the most feelings.  I have never cared to collect things of monetary value, the value is in the memory.

My doll collection is my favorite.  It is mostly composed of creepy dolls I have found in random garage sales and antique stores that really hold no true value.  They fill up dusty shelves and lurk through painted eyes at the curious children who gaze upon them as they walk by.  Ominous is that stare.  These are things I may not even have collected in my youth, I just felt a pull from an expression in the faces of the doll.

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As if my creepy doll collection was not enough, I also am a collector of, “I will fit into this again,” pants and shirts.  These are not necessarily even ones I am fond of.  They may not have even been flattering.   They just sit, and they remain.

I collect childhood favorites.  Worn, torn, broken, insides falling out, I collect them all.  There are things that have so long been a part of myself that it is like they are an inseparable thread woven into the tapestry of my life, a colorful, yet small, addition.

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I collect papers.  I collect napkins.  I collect small pieces of unimportant cloth I have found, anything, with a sentimental ramble scratched out in ink, maybe crayon.  I collect my own words.  Files and folders of my own words.  Books, piles, mountains of semi-organized processes of thought, all collected in a manner where I begin to wonder what happened to the meaning.

The strangest part of my collection is my ridiculous basket of socks.  I hate matching socks.  I hate organizing anything, and I ended up with where I am now believing is the centrifugal force pulling in every missing sock from every dryer world wide.

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I am a collector of things, like that misfit toy island.  If it is useless, I keep it.  Every time I move, I relearn this.  Every time I move, I indulge fully in the memories.  Immersed in the reasons, as well as the words.

Tomorrow is a new day of recollection.

I look forward to every one.