photographs and memories (à la Jim Croce)

I cleaned my room today. A task that proved itself wrong in many ways. One, the arrival of gifts and the many events that I need to dress up for will mess it all up again. Two, I was brought close to tears by what I found under the bed, between the folded clothes in the aparador, and behind the books in the shelf - memories. Memories everywhere. I imagine it like the soot spirits in Totoro - a black gust of dust seeping through the little openings under the heels of my shoes, between the neatly arranged books, through the words in my hidden journals. I imagine that like Mei, I can make these memories my friends and take them wherever I go. But I can't. What I can only take with me are photographs.