Odds and ends.

I collect random things through random phases of my life.

When i was a kid, i collected beads and screws and pictures of landscapes and flowers.

When i grew slightly older, i collected leaves and flowers and squished them between pages of books and diaries. Once they were dry, i'd use them to make something or i'd just look at them and feel happy.

In my teens, i started collecting things of sentimental value - a stray sheaf of pages from my third standard notebook; page-long stories i'd written about a little girl or a crow or a lion or a baby or an ant - insects seemed to have been my favourite; pictures from my parents' wedding; stones and shells from various places i had been to; a plastic rose that someone close gave me; a Cadbury's wrapper; twigs; a string of thread; love letters; even wallets that i have previously owned are all kept away like precious pieces of memory. Now, this collection has also grown to include drawings and letters and messages from young cousins.

These days, i collect post cards. Every time i hear of a friend travelling to some exotic destination, ask them to bring me back postcards. I collect Roald Dahl books. Asterix comics. Lemony Snicket stories.

I'm not sure if my changing collections speak volumes about who i am, but i'm sure of one pattern - that sooner or later, my interest in things shifts. Nothing stays. And surprisingly, now that i think about it, i'll be collecting something else when i die.

I'll be collecting dust ten feet underground.