My mom is a hoarder.
This is one of the most unshakable truth of my life. A foundation unlike any other for an impressionable mind. I don't live with her now, but that's another story.
When I did still live with her, the house I've come to know barely has any free space on it. That's a considerable feat; my house was a two-storey building with several rooms in each floor. There are clothes everywhere. Cooking pans and saucer in the living room, under the beds, and even at the remote corner of guest area. Boxes of all size littered the floor and tables - I never realized that we had a center table in the living room until late.
It was quite chaotic, to say the least.
Unknown for me was those boxes in the different corners of the house. A journey of never-ending wondering about their contents. Would I find more clothes? Would I find porcelain plates? Would I find rusty pans? Or maybe there's something precious inside those boxes lying forgotten in their quiet corners. Perhaps some old coins or antique paintings. Maybe there's photo album hidden there somewhere, filled with black & white or sepia portraits of relatives I rarely see and barely know.
That is unknown for me. Something within reach but cannot be meddled with. I could infinitely wonder, gears in my head churning non-stop, but at the end of the day, the coward that lives inside my heart would never venture out and seek adventure.
My mom is a hoarder. But despite this fact she has an uncanny dislike for people that cleans up the mess. As if everything she hoarded were in their own proper place. As if this anarchy of objects are actually the best they could ever be.
As a child I once meddled with a box. I no longer recall what's on that flimsy two by two box. But when she found out, she did not get angry. She got upset. That's worse. She was so upset that she forgot about food.
To be honest, it wasn't an unusual occurrence: forgetting about food. She often forget about sleep too. I often woke up in the middle of the night and find her whisper-shouting to the air, having an argument with the unseen. She often forgets about other things too: bills, my school, chores, etc etc.
I got used to it. I learned to cope. Humans sure are amazing. I learned early not to depend on someone. To be more precise, not to expect anything from anyone. Almost at the same time, I realized everything is an unknown variable. All the world is in ephemeral state, never constant, always changing.
With that conclusion in mind, the young me curled into myself and decided: This little corner of mine, I'm fine with it.
Day 1: The Unknown
Author
Bad Storm
no thought, head empty
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