I’m starting to feel like this blog is some sort of a brainchild of mine. I’m starting to feel possessive about it. I love the feeling; though of course I might not deserve it. But I love the warmth I experience around something I have made (written). Or something I hold very dear to me.

There is so much I have felt this way for; I have always been possessive about my books. Anne Frank’s Diary of a Young Girl. I lend it out with pride when someone asks but anxiously await its return, too polite to ask back for it but most people have this irritating habit of holding on to your stuff and not giving it back unless you ask; I think they expect you to forget all about it so that they can keep it for their own.

And I am possessive about my diaries and my poems, of course. And my ipod. But I am quite unforgivably possessve about my phone and its contents. (:

Off late I have also taken to be possessive about stationary, having lost quite a lot of it when I lent it out during the past year. I remember my friends, amused laughter twinkling in their eyes, as I sighed in relief when a classmate offered back  the thread he’d borrowed for his file, just after he’d finished his submissions, without my having to ask him.

But I feel some of it is good, really. This possessiveness about things and people. It lets you value things and hold on to things. It lets you gain sentimental attachment; I’m not going to be able to take any of these things out with me when I die but while I am here, its good to have a collection of memories and emotions (because things we own generate emotions and invoke memories in us after all) to help me tide through life with.


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