To celebrate the final season of the X-Files in 2002 (before I even thought there was the possibility of a poorly executed revival 14 years later), I made a giant collage from all the old posters and magazines I’ve been collecting since the ninety’s. It’s been taped on my bedroom wall since then, but a sudden desire to redecorate prompted me to take it down. Despite all the care I took some pieces of the collage started to crumble, and as I dragged it to the other room it left a trail of allergic-rhinitis inducing dust and powdered paper. I tried to put it up in the room where I keep my books, but it kept on folding over itself and falling down the floor. I resolved to buy a much stronger adhesive.
There was the temptation to just throw the damn thing away, but it still looked pretty good, despite almost one fourth of it now disintegrated and would require me to put in new photos. The smaller pieces of paper forming the patchwork have curled up, gathering dust and agiw for years. Armando Garmando suggested to have a carpenter put it in beautiful frame, but I wondered whether it was worth the effort. I was confused. I was the biggest X-Files fan back in the day, taking it upon myself to defend or apologize for some of the supposed worst episodes (ie, Season 6’s Alpha). Just throwing it away would be like betraying my past and my youth.
After my clinics I went home that night with my moral conundrum solved for me. I asked my mother where the heck my giant collage was, and she said she has crumpled the entire damn thing and threw it in the garbage. I acted like I was hurt. I was actually relieved.
“Nagbubukbok na!” she said.