There's this ache in remembering; recalling what life was before the decisions we made. Remembering how free and innocent your thoughts were and how soulful the music on the radio was when it was time to dance to the tunes of a particular advert. Memories are haunting. You want to remember, and you want to forget. You want to sieve them out accordingly; the bad, the good and the ugly. But they are not programmed like that. They are an integral and sacred part of us that reminds us of who we once were. Suddenly, your perfectly manicured fingernails find their way to the lines you’ve used to measure your height since you were five. An old photograph you stumble upon while cleaning out your room reminds you of the moment you refused to smile, because your slice of cake at your brother's three-year-old birthday was the smallest. Maybe you're just an old soul who never let go of things, and that's really fine. Every vintage piece strikes a reminder of something that was, or ...