stories of my life

I am back in the city which I am not sure I can call "home" anymore. Yes, it is true that I have a house here a 2 storey building right across the street where my parents lived, who with each passing nights are near the twilights of their lives. I know I am here for my quarantine vacation but I am not sure I will be comfortable or not.  I know everyone here loved me or recognize me so well but as time passes by things go different. Indeed it's a universal truth "home is a place of comfort & love" & yeah I am comfortable here it's just that I am afraid of waking up late, nagging of my parents, & I am afraid of the unusual lifestyle of my hostel. Moreover, I am afraid of my neighbor, family friends gazing on me & their unusual question, but I know I can cop up with this with my mom's made magical food which I have been craving for so long, the sibling with their emotional drama & most awaited late night walks with my friend

 yes I am a big hoarder of stuff. Stuff that might make no sense to you,  But yeah I am a collector of useless & meaningful things  Like the  old friendship band I got in primary, the wrapper of chocolate given to me with love or the minion which is being gifted by my mum.  Ever since I was a child my elder's always thought me to store all the memories in the brain box of mine & I did this by keeping Little reminder of those moments inside an old box which may seem usual to you but for me, it's a treasure chest. Probably as special as your favorite makeup vanity kit for you. But the main cause of holding things till now is that I always remember good memories with the bad memories. I never know when it's the time to let the awful memories go. Even I have a soulful collection with these good moments more than people in it. I get lost in those moments, I imagine them & try to relive them but I never really know how to let the things go when they are t