lt’s hard to top the smell of walking into your favorite ukay-ukay.
That lingering hint of mothballs, stale perfume, and phantom cigarettes — an unmistakable mixture that brings you back to the time you were a little kid trawling through your lola’s baul in Laguna. Never mind the thin veil of dust that seems to settle over every inch of pre-worn polyester, stretching out as far as the eye can see. It’s hard not to get caught up in the search for buried treasure among other people’s trash.
Picking out for ourselves the bits and pieces of other people’s identities (a titas of Manila vintage purse here; a logo-heavy, ironic tee there), trying them on for size, and wobbling around in a pair of someone else’s shoes before we find our own. When you think about it, it makes sense why digging through a literal amalgamation of other people’s once-loved, threadbare selves would appeal to someone who’s just started trying to figure out who they really are.