I hate moving. I think it could be due to my attachments to the past. It is evident in the way I hoard things. I have old newspaper cuttings, I have old souvenirs, I have old writings, old drawings, old computer games, old comics, stuff so old and useless that they serve no purpose other than to remind you of how old you are.

I find it amazing how a spatial location of object can hold your intangible memories. An object, no matter how small, can open a floodgate of emotions, without so much of a warning; the volume of the memories held defies the physical dimensions of the object. Each item holds a fragment of a past, so distinct, so distant. Yet with so many items and so much memories, I could never piece them together, never to arrive a complete whole.

There is a profound sense of lost, there is a pair of clenched fists which could not hold on to the passing of time, and there is a memory so full yet so empty, which failed to contain every waking moment...