Notes from a memory collector

I am a nostalgic soul. I miss moments before they’re even gone. I struggle to be present because I’m too busy finding ways to capture what’s happening. I want to be able to look back at a good moment, hoping it will bring me some joy later. Maybe it’s because my mind tends to hold onto the bad memories the most, so I try and collect the good ones : photographs, videos, little fragments of life, hoping they’ll remind me that happiness is possible, even on the days it feels so out of reach.

I’m always the one taking pictures, saving messages, keeping letters, cinema tickets, anything that leaves a trace. I want to remember everything. I actually have a very good memory (sometimes even a scary one… I’m the kind of person who remembers the birthday of a kid I went to school with when I was eight and never spoke to again; I often have to play it cool so people don’t think I’m a weirdo or secretly obsessed with them. I swear I’m not creepy, I just remember things). But still, I’m afraid of letting things slip away. I need them stored somewhere “safe,” outside of my mind.

That’s why I want to write down my recipes for my future children. And my mother’s recipes as well. Her advice too. I want pieces of us to survive time.

Sometimes I’ll be sitting quietly and hear my sisters laughing in another room, and I find myself wishing I could bottle that sound, keep it somewhere safe so I never lose it. Her laughter becomes another memory I want to preserve, proof that this house once echoed with joy, with life, with the kind of human presence that makes a place feel alive.

This instinct to hold onto things goes beyond memories. I’m the type to wear a bracelet forever just because someone I love gave it to me, and every time I look at it, I’m reminded of their affection.

Or how I find myself gazing at my ring throughout the day, letting it rest between my fingers for long minutes, as a gentle reminder that I am loved, of all the moments we lived together, and all the ones we aspire to create in the future and forever. Soppy, I know.

Whenever I’m living a gentle, comforting moment, my mind goes on high alert: remember every sentence, every detail because you’ll need to write it down later! It’s almost obsessive. A constant urge to capture life like a camera. It’s both a blessing and a curse, because the more I think about preserving the moment, the less I’m actually in it.

I’ve always found it fascinating how some writers spent their lives writing without knowing they would become famous long after their death. Maybe it comes a little bit from that, this desire to leave behind a trace of our existence. The dream that someone, centuries later, might stumble upon our words and wonder who we were.

When I was growing up, I often feared being boring. So the idea of someone reading me and feeling intrigued by my inner world felt comforting. That part comes from a lack of self-confidence, maybe from ego too, the need to be seen, understood, validated, who knows ? (I do).

But there’s also a brighter side. The way I cling to memories is, in its own way, proof that I feel things deeply. That I’m capable of being moved by the smallest moments: a sentence, a light, a look, a laugh. My sensitivity is also what allows me to notice the beauty hiding in ordinary moments. Holding onto memories isn’t just fear or nostalgia; it’s my way of honoring the world as I experience it. It means I’m paying attention. It means I listen: to myself and to others. It means I care.

And perhaps this piece is just another souvenir I’m placing on the shelf, another snapshot of an inner season. A way of preserving the shifting states of mind, the fleeting moments, the thoughts that pass through me before I can fully understand them. Maybe one day, I’ll return to these words and recognize myself in them, or maybe I won’t (I’m sure I will). But at least they’ll be here, witnesses to the fact that I tried to make sense of it all.

And if you’ve made it all the way here, thank you for becoming part of my memories too.

Sincerely,

Rania 🤍