Thursday, February 27, 2014


I love everything that’s vintage.

There. I said it.

It’s my only indulgence, really. Aside of books. And food.

Only recently, I built my collection of vintage memorabilia – re-creations of course, not the originals because that might need me to bust my kidney, and potentially ask you for yours to pay for them. Looking through them this evening, it struck me that I feel vividly, and strongly pulled in the direction of those eras. I’m don’t think I am exactly sure why. Is it the creases in the papers that have been folded and pressed down by the weight of time? Is it the sepia tone that time paints over what has become the past? Is it the gentle smell of the past coated with a thin film of must that makes me deliriously giddy every time I find something old? Is it the memories that are trapped in every little molecule of the relic that is a painstaking ambassador of the bygone eras? Or is it the little tribute that every little trinket is, to the era that they came from, making our today what it is?


There’s a vague restlessness within to want to know, a silly temptation to want to dive into the depths of my otherwise idle grey matter to find out what this inexplicable obsession stems from. There’s a deep-seated desperation that makes me want to understand the urge to paint re-creations of scenes in pen and ink from the pre-WWII era, and splash the sheet with diluted coffee decoction.

See what I mean? 

I’m not sure I’ll get at the right answer, or if there is one to start with. But I do know this much. That every piece that I collect – be it an Annual School Girls’ Digest with the name Wendy printed on the first page in baby-handwriting, or an early edition Enid Blyton, or vintage posters on Pinterest and off it – is a sentinel of a time in the past. It is beautifully real testimony to what has passed – what we will only have memories of, vicariously at that because we will only have what has been heard from our preceding generations. 

We are born, we die. In that little interstice in between, we try, we thrive, we fill our time with all that we want and don’t want, with love, with hatred, with laughter, with anger, with grief, with sorrow, with misunderstanding, with fun, with jokes, with silly moments that only that one second can comprehend and so much more. We don’t stop to cherish these moments, and one fine day, we stop altogether. So what we leave behind becomes an imprint of those memories – of those things that we didn’t enjoy, but the generations after us will come to cherish and enjoy. “I wish I lived back then,” they will lament like I lament today – foolishly forgetting to cherish the here and the now.

That’s what these vintage collections want to tell me perhaps: seize the day. I know I need to, I know I need to live all sixty seconds of every minute. And as much as this might feel like my journal bared open on blogosphere, this is as applicable to you as it is to me – I don’t know who you are, necessarily, but I know that our lives are inexplicably similar as they are terribly different.

Seize the day.

Breathe. Live. Be.