What The Hell Is In The Box? - More of my writing

It is funny to me how writing works. Sunday I was in tears, yes I admit, because I was so frustrated with myself. I was back and forth between lamenting my writer's block and berating myself to get with it and write something dammit! I made my 'excuses', valid as they might be, and promised for a post update today. It was my intention, with much resignation, to post out of order for the sake of posting. However, less than an hour ago I was struck with the words that needed to be written next.

Brand new and hot off the presses...this is what comes next. Better late than never, right?

As always, COMMENT!

. . .

It would suit that the box be wooden and have the appearance of age. The woman bringing them together had a deep love for nature and wisdom and a wooden box would seem to speak to both.

 

Still no one made to open it and reveal the contents. The box had them mesmerized with fear, with longing; it would only be for each of them to allude to the many emotions they were each experiencing.

“Might I?” the third man spoke up, ready to accept the burden that was so evidently weighing heavy on the other two men. He could swallow his own, if it meant the comforts of the others would be waylaid for a time. In attempts to ease the mood, he uncharacteristically joked, “What’s the worst it could be?”

 

“Let’s burn it, leave well enough alone.” The man minutes ago who had argued for the box, changing his mind.

 

“Tried it.” Speaking calmly still even after his joking, the man was more than ready to open the box.

 

“You did?”

“No, she did. Nearly caught herself on fire trying to retrieve it too. She wasn’t mad though, well mad with laughter perhaps, I think she was tired and the box seemed to amplify and remind her of that.”

“Why would she try to burn it and then save it?” the man who had remained the most opposed to the idea all along spoke up.

The man shrugged his shoulders before answering. Instead of answering he merely repeated his same question, “Might I?”

The men didn’t protest nor speak up and he took that to mean resigned consent. Although each of the men had been wary to open the box, they leaned in eager as children to view it’s ‘mystery’.

On a deep sigh, one of the men whispered, “Letters…”

 

“Invisible threads are the strongest ties.” ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

 

You find the memories you love the most and let your mind have its fun. You let the repeating of the memories within the confines of your thoughts get you through the minutes, the hours and the days. They breathe the life into you that your body finds necessary to go on. You can’t explain it to anyone, they are after all your memories, and why should you? Therefore you see no point in sharing them.

Memories are powerful creatures and they themselves begin wining and dining with every aspect your life. They make bed fellows and enemies and they tear down the boundaries you thought never to cross. Even at their highest ‘high’ you still hold all the cards.

That’s how it began. I lived off the memories, a beggar child searching for any morsel that would get me through my day. When that wasn’t enough I had to find ways to give the memories life in the everyday world. I think it could be viewed as pathetic, ridiculous and perhaps crazy on some levels, but a girl in love will go to such extremes. A girl broken and searching will do everything short of selling her soul and even then she might stumble to that path, if it brings her what she desires.

The letters, these letters, were my way of reliving it again, to hold on and not forget. Words cannot be exhausted, they can be forced at times or long in coming, but never are there enough. Other things I did to remember, the patterns I created, the rhetoric I tried to implement so that the people I cared for the most in this world wouldn’t fade, those were exhausting schemes. They were attempts to change who I am and who I am to be. I tried them nonetheless, but the words…the words gave me hope and pain and release and the ability to hold them forever.

Who would I be, if not for the outpouring you will read of among these pages of my heart?

I could have started this letter out as so many cliché novels I read. I’m not dead though, at least I think I’m not. The point is I’m not starting my first letter off with an opening, “If you’ve found this letter…” unless you want me to and in that case the wrong people—the wrong men—are reading from my Pandora’s box. I give myself either due credit or I’ve become a hopeless romantic in my old age. Ha! I’m not even old while I’m writing this letter. It is my Pandora’s box because I cling to it, my life line and my poison. It is my box of threads—connections—to what I hold dear and what I dread the most; remembering and forgetting.

I crave the purpose of a broken love, a misguided love, a long kept love.

Yours,

Willow