atomicpoet on Nostr: I’ve become, for better or worse, a collector. At this point, I own tens of ...
I’ve become, for better or worse, a collector.
At this point, I own tens of thousands of video games. Thankfully, most of them are digital, not physical, but still—yeah, it’s a lot. I wish I could say it’s just “stuff,” but all of it means something to me. Each game ties to a specific memory or moment in my life.
The same goes for music. I have thousands of songs, most stored on my digital audio player, but I also collect physical media—vinyl, cassettes, and CDs. I probably own at least a thousand of those.
Then there’s the hardware. I have way too much of it. Laptops I should get rid of, a desktop tower sitting in the basement collecting dust, and even an all-in-one touchscreen unit that’s practically useless.
And yet, I hold on to my consoles—they’re untouchable. As a kid, I dreamed of owning an NES, but my mom wouldn’t let me. Now that I finally have one, there’s no way I’m letting it go.
And it’s not just games and gadgets. I have CRT TVs, VHS tapes, tablets, books—so many books—and paintings. Yes, I even collect paintings. Some of it has deep personal meaning, while other things… well, why do I still own an old second-gen Echo Dot? I have no idea. It just exists.
I’m not a hoarder, though. I can throw out trash, and I do. In fact, getting rid of things feels amazing. When I let go of something, it’s like reclaiming space—physical and mental. But as I get older, it’s harder to part with objects. They’ve absorbed meaning over time.
When I was a teenager, I wasn’t sentimental at all. I mocked sentimentality and embraced minimalism. My life was all about essentials: a pan, a few meals, a computer, maybe a chair or two. That phase lasted a few years, but now it feels like a different life.
Take my Sony turntable, for instance. It’s cheap and plasticky—$180 when I bought it new—but it’s been with me through so much. I used to play it every day after work, a ritual that kept me grounded. When my daughter was a baby, I’d play music for her on that turntable. We still listen to music together every day. It’s our time to connect—she shares what she’s into, and we talk. Those moments mean the world to me.
She’s turning 12 this year, and I keep thinking, “Five more years until she’s legally old enough to leave.” Life moves so fast.
Today, I was playing Crazy Taxi on my Steam Deck, and it brought me back to those solo trips to the arcade. Hearing The Offspring on the soundtrack was a trip. Moments like that stick with you.
Maybe objects gain a kind of soul over time. Maybe it’s not about the things themselves but the meaning we give them—the memories, the experiences. It’s hard to explain why I hold on to certain things, except to say they’re part of what made me… me.
At this point, I own tens of thousands of video games. Thankfully, most of them are digital, not physical, but still—yeah, it’s a lot. I wish I could say it’s just “stuff,” but all of it means something to me. Each game ties to a specific memory or moment in my life.
The same goes for music. I have thousands of songs, most stored on my digital audio player, but I also collect physical media—vinyl, cassettes, and CDs. I probably own at least a thousand of those.
Then there’s the hardware. I have way too much of it. Laptops I should get rid of, a desktop tower sitting in the basement collecting dust, and even an all-in-one touchscreen unit that’s practically useless.
And yet, I hold on to my consoles—they’re untouchable. As a kid, I dreamed of owning an NES, but my mom wouldn’t let me. Now that I finally have one, there’s no way I’m letting it go.
And it’s not just games and gadgets. I have CRT TVs, VHS tapes, tablets, books—so many books—and paintings. Yes, I even collect paintings. Some of it has deep personal meaning, while other things… well, why do I still own an old second-gen Echo Dot? I have no idea. It just exists.
I’m not a hoarder, though. I can throw out trash, and I do. In fact, getting rid of things feels amazing. When I let go of something, it’s like reclaiming space—physical and mental. But as I get older, it’s harder to part with objects. They’ve absorbed meaning over time.
When I was a teenager, I wasn’t sentimental at all. I mocked sentimentality and embraced minimalism. My life was all about essentials: a pan, a few meals, a computer, maybe a chair or two. That phase lasted a few years, but now it feels like a different life.
Take my Sony turntable, for instance. It’s cheap and plasticky—$180 when I bought it new—but it’s been with me through so much. I used to play it every day after work, a ritual that kept me grounded. When my daughter was a baby, I’d play music for her on that turntable. We still listen to music together every day. It’s our time to connect—she shares what she’s into, and we talk. Those moments mean the world to me.
She’s turning 12 this year, and I keep thinking, “Five more years until she’s legally old enough to leave.” Life moves so fast.
Today, I was playing Crazy Taxi on my Steam Deck, and it brought me back to those solo trips to the arcade. Hearing The Offspring on the soundtrack was a trip. Moments like that stick with you.
Maybe objects gain a kind of soul over time. Maybe it’s not about the things themselves but the meaning we give them—the memories, the experiences. It’s hard to explain why I hold on to certain things, except to say they’re part of what made me… me.