I've always liked the feeling of a crowd. Not in the sense of people that is, but in the sense of belongings.
In the sense of belonging.
My room, as it stands now and has always stood before, is part of the clutter. This is the way I like it, the clutter, closeness, comfort that comes in knowing that these things, that this life is mine. It is crowded there, or so I have been told in the past, though all I seem to notice are the gaps between books and empty spaces beside worn down souvenirs. Perhaps to the untrained, uncaring eye, I live in the recycling, next to the stuffed animals you're supposed to give up during puberty and the old writings, drawings, dreams of childhood. I push these things I can't let go of into every corner like I'm painting the walls in the periwinkle paint you can find at Lowes under the name Nostalgia. I am hanging them from the ceiling like the glow in the dark stars I've had in every house I've moved into. I am creating myself through all the selves I have given in to but never given up.
I am not just surrounded by the crowd; I am the crowd. I am every gift I've been given, and every two-cent impulse buy I've ever bought, like the necklaces given to me on my last birthday or the cheap, cherry lipstick that painted my lips during my first kiss. They are not just things that are mine, I am theirs, made from the memories they gifted me.
My father once had piercings that he did himself, black and silver and happy and hopeful. The holes closed with time, turmoil, telltale signs of age but I wear them now, in the ears that have heard all of his stories and remembered all of his wisdom. I wear my mother's rings, silver and glinting in golden sunshine. They hold my hand when she cannot, they collect on fingers and make my hands feel full, like I am sifting through the soft sands of time she has given me. My family has a tradition with Christmas ornaments and memories. My grandma, who I do not see often but our love fills the space in between phone calls, sends the ornaments in cardboard boxes with her time and her deep dedicated care. I am the Christmas tree.
I feel beautiful in the knowledge that I am the love I have been given.
As it is, knowing that I am all the pieces of other people I have collected, knowing that all this love is crowded and cluttered inside of me makes me feel like home.
Because I've always liked the feeling of a crowd. Not in the sense of people that is, but in the sense of belongings.
In the sense of belonging.