Where The Lost Things Are.

Have you ever put two socks in the washing machine and, on going to collect your clothes, found that one of them has vanished into thin air? No matter how many times you search the machine or shake out your wet clothes, eventually you have to accept the fact that the sock is gone, and that it probably won't be coming back. Is there an explanation for this? Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. The point is that lots of things are lost; they disappear without a trace, never to return. These things that disappear, where do they go?

I've developed a habit of losing things on a daily basis, the thing I lose most of all without a doubt is my keys. I've found them in every place possible: on top of the wardrobe, down the back of the bed, in the fridge, in the sink. Losing my keys is the least of my worries right now, though. I'm more concerned with losing the bigger things: the list of things I need to learn for my English Language exam, the ink cartridges for my two favourite pens, my phone, the USB stick with my coursework on it, my mind, the ability to pull that smile from someone who means the world to me. Things like the final one in that list, those are the things that are worth searching for and retrieving if possible.

I like to think that there's a place where all the lost things gather. Similiar to the place Cecelia Ahern describes in her novel "A Place Called Here", where all the missing and forgotten things exist, gathered together hoping to be found. People, keys, odd socks and too many pieces of paper to count, all there waiting for me to track them down. With them now are memories that I always thought would be worth holding onto, a day where things far beyond my imagination occured and gave me more false hope than any person should ever have to face. The point is that the memories of the feel of arms around me, of a face aganst mine, of breath against my ear, against my neck, are fading fast, readying themselves to flee and join the things I have already lost and forgotten.