You won’t find moth-eaten clothes or broken toys in my attic, just about six boxes containing souvenirs and old memories from my childhood of moments regretfully only half-lived. Collecting memories is a hobby that should not be taken lightly.
Years ago, the obsessive-compulsive person in me was preoccupied with capturing and documenting each moment of everyday so that it never passed and was forgotten.
At the end of each day in elementary school, my nine-year old self would rush home and pull out my little Lisa Frank diary, with pretty drawings of colorful unicorns and multi-spotted leopards adorning the purple cover. I’d religiously spend the first 15 minutes chronicling the day’s events, ideas, and emotions. The scrupulous documentation appealed to my subconscious need to perpetuate and preserve the past. Seeing my scribbles forever displayed on a hard copy brought me happiness and a sense of security.
Years later, in the early spring, I visited the Adirondack Mountains in Northeastern New York. With a camera, notebook, and pen in hand, I recorded each strange event, place, and person that I came across. I felt accomplished and productive, meticulously preserving for posterity an organized log of my travels.
On my last night there, I found myself sleeplessly roaming out of my cabin, notebook in hand, into the remote wilderness, a chill creeping its way into my skin. My breath caught as I looked up, into the snowy white mountains as the full moon shone down on the glistening, pristine lake, so clear the crisp evergreen trees were reflected on its moonlit surface.
Instinctively, I reached for my pen to translate the stream of feelings I was experiencing into coherent words.
I tried to write, but could not bring my pen to the paper. At that moment, I found that nothing I wrote could ever express or capture the undeniable splendor of my surroundings.
I took a moment, put down my pen, and flipped through the notebook that I had kept throughout the trip. I was surprised to realize that all of my previous recordings read trivial and bland. By staying behind and attempting to preserve my experiences, I neglected to actually live them.
It’s been years since I’ve touched my diary or felt the need to. I’ve come to the conclusion that life will too quickly pass me by if I waste my time writing down each event, too preoccupied with freezing the present than living in the moment.
I might not be able to recall the names of certain places I’ve been to or precise descriptions of people I’ve met anymore, but I would’ve actually lived my memories and stepped out from behind the curtain.
I’m not afraid anymore because I know that the experiences that actually matter are the ones that will stay with me always, no matter how hard I try to remember them, or forget. Life isn’t about making memories for the sake of having them. Life is meant to be lived and the memories accordingly make themselves.
Jue Lia Fong is a rising senior at Walt Whitman High School and lives in Bethesda.
