Not in the traditional sense.
I don’t collect stamps, or coins, or postcards from far-off cities.
But I do collect moments.
Moments where the world paused just long enough for me to notice it.
A joke that landed at the perfect time.
A quiet walk that felt like an answer.
The exact way someone said something that stuck with me for years.
Those weird little “glitches” in life that feel too strange to be random — I pocket those, too.
I collect screenshots of texts that made me feel understood.
Songs that caught me off guard.
Snippets of conversations, overheard and never forgotten.
So maybe my collection isn’t something I can put on a shelf.
But it’s there — a scattered museum of meaning, stored across notebooks, tabs, playlists, and memory fragments.
Messy. Beautiful. Mine.


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