Writing on the walls

 I believe every object I’ve ever owned, even touched, contributes in some minute way to the story of my life. 

Of course, I can’t name every object I’ve ever interacted with in 650 words, even if I could remember them all. And I certainly can’t delve into how each of them might have shaped an almost imperceptible facet of my self, leading to incomprehensible texture in my life.

But I can talk about my bedroom walls.

They’re atrocious, plastered with the sentimental things that lived on my floor until I finally had the energy to clean it off. Things that I couldn’t find any better use for, but couldn’t quite bring myself to throw away. And now they sit there, almost like memories in a brain. 

I’m so used to the presence of these photographs, posters, scraps of artwork, and even old projects, that they usually mean nothing. They’re just noise. But every so often, I’ll look at one just right and be transported back to the moment when I acquired it, remembering a host of emotions, thoughts, and experiences connected to it. 

An example of this is an outline of the reader’s autobiography essay from freshman year. I was trying to rearrange the ideas, on my ceiling, in white and neon yellow notecards.

It's still there as I write this, but no longer complete-- you can still see the leftover sticky tack. What was there? I don’t fully remember exactly. I remember I felt angry and helpless about my identity as a reader, when I was writing this essay. I remember directing that anger at “societal expectations.” 

The pieces still on the wall reflect so much uncertainty that I don’t remember. I remember being sad and angry, but the confusion only comes through looking back, from a distance. I’m glad those pieces stayed on the wall. 

The missing pieces were neon pink, and were torn down in shame, if I recall correctly. They were so angry, at me and at the world, and looking back at them made me sad for the girl who wrote and wholeheartedly believed those things, and ashamed that I was her. When I decided that I no longer wanted to acknowledge that old anger and confusion, I got rid of them, and now that history is lost to me. 

There is a power in letting go. I certainly feel less angry at the world now then I did in the fall of 2020. The anger held in the cards has been diminished with them. But now that they’re gone, it’s harder to recall why I felt that way, what words I was telling myself. I think it's good to remember these intense feelings, but acknowledge they aren’t static. Allow them to change, but don’t erase them. I wish I hadn’t erased them. 

So the cards that stay are a relic of my past, obscured, like memories, by time and my feelings and my feelings about those feelings. But I’ve decided, at this moment, to keep them there. I think I need the reminder of older versions of myself existing. Versions of myself with whom I no longer share a worldview. So I know that my mind will change again. That the way I am now isn’t forever, and that I can, with time and focus, become more comfortable with my failures.

To reviewer: any ideas on how to bring out/ add a "universal" bit? Thanks! Oh and also more character.