I love my weekends majorly, majorly because of a specific reason. I get to spend a lot of my time reading, blogging and sleeping. I am no party animal and I hate roaming around/touring the city all the time. So generally I sit with my books, my newspapers, my postcards and breathe with them or I write letters, emails, blogs and express all that I’ve been wanting to. But this week, I had a deadline for a heavy-on-emotion task – I had to clear up a room where a part of my treasure was kept – all my school and college books, assignments, cyclostyles, answer scripts, guides. I was, ages ago, assigned the task of sorting them all out and giving them away to a library or the old paper market. And I had been scrupulously avoiding doing it for the longest time and been giving the stupidest of excuses for putting it off each time. Because, you know, they weren’t just books or paper for me, they were a piece of my heart. A part of my journey. An incredible part of my journey. The touch, the feel, the aura the room had around it, always brought fond memories into my head, leaving me nostalgic. The smell of old paper is a scent irreplaceable to me. As I pile them all up today, ready to be given away, I clutch each bit of everything that’s there, give it the tightest hug possible and hold it for the longest time before I can actually say goodbye to it. And I don’t want to.