As I emptied out the last of my wardrobe's contents into my large suitcase, I felt a deep aching in my chest, and athough I knew the feeling was not a literal heart defect, I still felt as though I was dying. I felt as though someone was actually shoving their hand into my chest and pulling me apart from the inside out. I hopped up onto my knees, and reached towards the wall, which was usually covered by my clothing. I ran my slightly shaking fingers along the dozens of polaroid photos I had not too long ago stuck to the wall, smiling to myself as I did so. I remember wanting to display the multiple photos on my wall, the collection of shots ranging from photos of my friends, parents, myself, and even just photos of the town, but my mother thought they looked tacky, so I displayed them here, for my viewing pleasure only.
I slowly pulled the photos from the wall, taking time to reminisce over each moment in which I had pulled out my camera to snap a shot, each photo having its own memory, its own story, stories in which I was to soon close the door on.
Or maybe they were closing the door on me.
