I Forgot How To Craft

A massive stack of photos in single envelopes, and polaroid's in giant manila folders covered the area rug beneath my feet.

A pink plastic, rather large tub lay beyond sight. Overflowing with craft supplies, and various microplastics; adhesive stickers, glitters, glitter glues. Stuffed between a variety of construction paper, tissue paper, ribbon, textured tape, and beads of rainbow hue.

An equal to size but much more sturdy black bin with a bright yellow lid sat to my left. Stacked with disposable cameras, new rolls of film.

Eleven used, and undeveloped.

The hoarders pile shuffled, shifted, and spilled over. The contents were released from their captivity.

“Ughh” I growled under my breath.

It turned into an escaped whimper that led me to cower, cave, and create all day.

Taking photos was always an occurrence I would dread at any event growing up. Although as I began to grow into, and out of my teenage angst, I appreciated the sentiment.

I began to understand how important it was to have a tangible memory from any experience. Taking photos is a privilege.

A single zipper bag floated amongst the wreckage. Filled with scissors, paper shapes, scraps, and ones' selective, elegant tissue-paper origami rubble. Scissors galore, just three pairs actually; but you still have options. One that creates little ridges, a pair that creates scalloped waves, and these industrial over-sized blue office scissors. This pair I would not need, if I could find a pair that fit my abnormally small hands. My toddler fingers.

Small and meaty.

No gloves I have ever owned have truly fit, rather large keyboards are a bitch, but usually they come in handy in small spaces.

Pun intended.

Oh if only you knew. I wrote that without even laughing because I am just naturally,

"punny"

ah okay, enough.

Growing up I always liked to craft, though never quite the art protégée, and lacking the confidence to try other artistries.

Colors, photography, writing, and arranging with scissors, and bedazzled works of origami. I could compete, I was good but more importantly it was just me. So it truly was creating art.

Even if it wasn’t recognized.

Each summer I would create a scrap-book of my adventures. I was a child of divorce, so it was a way to include both sides of my life. It helped my personal mental health but it was a tangible piece of myself.

It allowed me to connect the two halves of me.

Each summer, I would collect a pile of disposable cameras, use my birthday money to have them developed, and find my hoard of supplies. The real essential being a pair of weathered scissors from my primary school days. They were small, small like for little kids. Bright lime green, and neon yellow. A foamy, textured grip, light as a feather, sharp, and precise.

What I would do to have them right now.

Nevertheless,

What a hidden treasured lost little memory. Which led to my life altering epiphany, I had let almost nine years of myself piled inside boxes, placed on shelves to be forgotten.

No wonder my personal life was in flames this was a symbolic metaphor of what I had become. Placing myself aside for the hustle. Little did I know, it’s not a hustle if you’re on a treadmill.

Getting nowhere because you’re subconsciously, and very literally putting yourself aside.

“Who the fuck was I?” almost exasperated, it escaped with the last breath I had previously let out.

My shag rug was coated in glitter, and photos, but one specific one just stood out. Placed right above my right foot, probably five inches away. Just a perfectly placed photo of just me. Taken with a disposable camera, closer to the folder that had busted open, reading summer of 2016.

Just little ole me, smiling from ear to ear, hair matted, tangled, and a mess. Surrounded by towering maples, clearly lost in a forest somewhere.

Just smiling.

A lost memory, I might never have found if I hadn't of gone looking for myself.