Little letters, tiny gifts, notes, pictures, Polaroids, greeting cards, emails, chat scraps, movie stubs, festival tickets, toll receipts, restaurant checks, shopping bills... the little scraps of memories.
Scraps in which you break away a part of your love or whatever the fuck you had and try to store it. Keep it alive. All of life is a tedious journey keeping alive everything that dies a natural death. It's called love.
You find these little love horcruxes in places most unexpected, and suddenly you're taken back in time. Transported. Just like that. To five years ago, maybe ten. Who knows. Who's keeping count, anyway.
Then the invisible power in that pithy little piece of shit scrap tries and invokes a feeling in you. Tries so hard. And for a second you give in too. For a split second you're like ok, fuck it, I acknowledge that there was such a time as when this piece of shit scrap made me feel something.
Then you snap right out of it because you've basically murdered whatever it was within you that felt things. And now your state of mind oscillates between a dormant volcano waiting to erupt and a quiet peaceful lake somewhere in Iceland that's basically ok with the current state of things.
But mostly it's in the Iceland state of mind. So you tear the pithy piece of shit scrap into eight or nine pieces of smaller pithy scraps and discard them all in the dustbin.
Yet another little love horcrux destroyed. Annihilated. Yet another little living memory of a love that once breathed, laid to rest forever. But that's not the end of it.
The Prestige of this little magical "story" is - how many more of these little shit scraps are there? How many more of these will you discover?
In how many of these little things does that love still live?
How many of them will magically appear as a reminder of love that magically disappeared?