I have this box, it’s a small lacquered wooden jewelry box with red satin cushioning on the inside, and I have had it for a long time. Over the years, it has slowly filled up with tiny pieces of memory. And now, when I open it, I see a report in objects, a chronicle of my life told in things. My other life. A life that lies behind me forever now, and I look back on it both fondly and melancholically.
Most of these objects will seem senseless to you, I know. But every single one of them carries a meaning. A part of my past. Facing this box hurt, because it tells a story of dreams, hopes and friendships that I’ve lost along the way. Sometimes an object in this box is all what’s left to remind me of them.
I don’t know why I wanted to share this. I suppose it’s my own take at mourning. The psychiatrist said I’m going to a process of grief, after all. Ask me the story of these things. Let me tell it one more time. Maybe I should bury the box after that, allow it to be dead and gone like the things it represents.