When cleaning my room, I often find myself stumbling across little pieces of my childhood.

A dusty DVD, faded Eid card, old diaries filled with doodles and half-written thoughts, and a broken video game controller. Each one pulls me into a daydream. I get caught up going through them all, flipping through the pages of my diaries, reading old notes, and wondering where all the time went.

Back then, I loved collecting these things. Now, however, it feels like they have been quietly collecting pieces of me all these years.

I've been writing since I was a child, so naturally, my shelves and drawers became an archive of my past life, filled with friends, stories, and memories like nothing else. I didn't realise it at the time, but this personal collection became the driveway of my life. The place where I first understood that I wanted to be a writer. Every scrap of paper, every diary entry, and every little keepsake was a reflection of how much I loved telling stories.

Looking back, it feels like those objects were not clutter but a foundation for the person I've grown into.

In an increasingly digital world, the tactile experience of holding a cherished piece of physical media is an art form in and of itself. There's something uniquely grounding about having an object in your hands that carries and tells a story – a piece of the past that feels alive. Decades ago, physical media was not an option; it was the heart of how people engaged with art, music, and literature. Vinyl records were household staples during the 70s and 80s. Dropping the needle onto a record offered an experience – a moment of ritual that brought sound and soul together.

As time moved on, cassettes and CDs took over, filling shelves and car dashboards, making music portable and personal. Letters and postcards, meanwhile, carried handwritten warmth, connecting hearts across distances in a way no text message ever could.

Growing up, I often stumbled across pieces of this world tucked away in the corners of my family's archives. Old CDs of Tagore's songs. Books from my uncles' childhoods, their pages filled with pencil marks. Letters were my favorites – carefully folded and yellowed with age, but bursting with the warmth from a time I had only heard about in stories.

These objects became bridges to a past I felt connected to, even if I hadn't lived it. Even films had a different magic back then. VHS tapes and DVDs became prized possessions, with carefully curated collections lining living rooms. Watching a movie was about choosing a beloved film from your collection, placing it in the player, and enjoying the experience with intention.

To many, collections are personal archives. They are reflections of tastes and values, and, to this day, the beauty of those tangible experiences remains.

But with the rise of digital media, much of this culture has shifted. The convenience of streaming services and e-books has made physical media feel obsolete to some. Yet, there's a growing realisation that something gets lost in the process. Digital files lack the warmth of a handwritten letter, the joy of finding a rare vinyl in a second-hand shop, or the nostalgia of flipping through an old photo album. Physical media brings a sense of grounding in a world that often feels too fast and intangible.

Ohona Anjum writes, rhymes, and studies English literature.