A Collection of Shit in the Name of Love?
Love has made me do a lot of crazy things. The craziest? Becoming a hoarder. You probably have an idea in your head of what “the box” is, in a relationship. If you don’t, I’ll do my best to explain it to you. It’s a culmination of the relationship in all of its physical forms. They’re the most ordinary of objects, mostly cheap or free of cost. Whenever I like someone I end up collecting all the tiny things that would have otherwise been thrown away, had they not been connected to such a special person. Keeping these things, like movie stubs, remind me not just the film, but the person I watched it with.
They’re the stained coasters you used from that old dive bar. They’re the pens you “accidentally” took when leaving a tip. They’re the sports game tickets you bought that one jersey for. They’re the gum wrappers from that kind you chew together that loses flavor way too soon. They’re the takeout menus from restaurants you return to again and again. They’re the bottle caps and lids from both your favorite sodas. They’re the photo booth film strips from hotel lobbies. They’re the homemade letters you write on sheets of white lined paper because of your shared hatred for the Hallmark ones. They’re the receipts of things you sip together like tea or milk disguised as coffee. They’re the train, bus and ferry tickets taken to escape for just a bit. They’re the wine corks popped on gum-lined benches. They’re the faded concert wristbands you said you’d take off in the shower but never did.
They’re the scraps, the shavings, the pieces that would fall to the ground if you were to wring out your relationship like a sopping wet towel. They’re the insignificant knick knacks that get piled up in old shoe boxes or shoved in the bottom of that one miscellaneous sock drawer. You don’t keep the receipts because you wish to return the items or need proof of purchase. You don’t snag that pen because you like the way it glides on the paper. You don’t keep that crinkled, ink faded menu, because you plan on ordering in. You keep these things as a form of proof. Proof of things existing exactly as they did. Proof of being loved in this lifetime and loving back, in return.
These invaluable pieces of shit don’t mean anything to anyone else. It’s like an inside joke that only you two get. They’re reminders to you of a day well spent. They’re reminders of how people can make the mundane feel new. They’re reminders of the simple things we take for granted. They’re a way to hold onto memories so they can outlive the moment in time that they belong to.
You’ll find that gum wrapper in the form of a ball in your denim jean pocket a week later. You’ll find that takeout menu hiding in that pile in the corner of your kitchen. You’ll find yourself using that film strip as a bookmark in that book you’re reading because you could never justify buying one. Months will pass and you’ll notice you’ve placed all these little things in their very own spot, now their designated home. Little by little, piece by piece, you’ll see everything you cherish in that person in these items.
People have a way of reminding us that what actually brings the most joy are memories that can’t be bought or shipped to our homes overnight. That human connection, however complicated and messy it can be, at times, are what give regular objects their meaning. These items aren’t tied to instant gratification or the trend cycle that loses charm in the next season. They’re timeless. Your own grandmother probably had a few pieces of shit from your very own grandpa. Homemade mixtape or playlist, small vacation souvenir, that dull penny you found in the crack on the sidewalk, a fortune cookie from the Chinese takeout spot that never made sense when you needed it the most. Perhaps one of the simplest yet truest tests to gauge how you feel about someone, is by asking yourself if you’d care about these random, trivial things. Would you put them under your bed in a box to return to? Or would you throw them away? Would you proudly curate a collection of shit in the name of love?
Article images courtesy of the author, Thumbnail by @Well__born