đź•’ This essay is more than 10 years old (Published Sep 24, 2014).
Upon entering my college dorm room, one can see many things and at the same time see nothing. There is an arrangement of album covers on my wall, a set of birthday cards hanging from a poorly drilled-in screw, and a number of photos randomly spaced around the room. A few physical album copies are attached to the wall between posters, a dozen of boarding tickets can be seen on my doors, and there are some train tickets and name tags placed around them.
Everything is rather obvious at first sight. The family photos are there to remind me of my mom, dad, and brother. The train tickets are placed on my doors so that I never forget my trips to Milan, Amsterdam, and Berlin. The birthday cards are there to revive the celebratory emotions when I feel uninspired or unmotivated. But, in reality, there is much greater importance placed in each of these objects that can be felt, heard, and understood only by me.
The album cover of Soap&Skin’s album Lovetune for Vacuum on my wall takes me back to September of 2009, when I heard the song “Cynthia” and felt completely lost and insecure for the first time in my life. The small photo of my grandpa kissing my grandma on the cheek does not sit on my shelf because I simply miss my grandparents, but because I don’t remember my grandpa at all. The miniature stone version of Mostar’s Old Bridge reminds me of the unexplainable fear I felt when my friend gave me this present, before I left for MIT, and told me everything was going to be fine.
The conspicuous disco ball brings back to life the excitement I felt after discovering the world of techno music in a gritty Berlin nightclub. Ballroom Stars Vol. 2, a beautifully designed album by Casa Musica, sits under my lamp and helps me remember the joy of growing up and spending days with my ballroom dance partner.The printed black and white title Četvrtkom u 25 do 9, under a cracked CD case, which translates to Thursdays at 8:35 p.m., restores the unstoppable laughter and feelings of happiness I felt with my friends when we made a year-long, online TV show. The black and white photo of my parents stands next to my window and reminds me of the times when I used to hide under the blanket in our living room and listen to them sing Whitney Houston’s “Saving All My Love for You.”
And then, there is a list in my drawer. This hidden list contains an itemized collection of memories I don’t want to forget but which I did not materialize: seeing Manhattan for the first time, learning how to drive, dancing with my family on 1999 New Year’s Eve, sitting next to a pilot on a flight to San Diego, crying in my mom’s embrace on August 22, 2011, having my first birthday surprise party, saying “I love you” to my friend, sitting on bleach in NYC metro train, dancing salsa with a Cuban music band in a bar, falling asleep during my first opera, getting my first paycheck, and watching my little brother become a teenager.
These objects in my room, and in my life, are much more than a collection of items. They serve a higher purpose; they store something of utmost importance to me—memories. All these memories are manifested in physical form yet their essence is based on emotion, which is the most significant and intangible aspect of memory recollection to me.
There is something beautiful about storing past emotions in present-time objects. Many dislike these kinds of memories because they prevent one from letting go and moving forward, which can certainly be true sometimes, but there can also be a surreal sense of fulfillment when one surrenders to past feelings.
I like to re-experience memories from my past because, even though they invoke the same emotions, they provide a fresh perspective on previous events. They allow me to see how much I’ve changed—for better or for worse—and give me a sense of reference when I feel indecisive.
Most importantly, though, they let me keep track of all the people and events that entered my life, influenced my way of thinking, and found their places in my mind and in my heart.