Memory Box

Last night I sat on my floor and shuffled through my memory box. It’s small but mighty, containing primarily paper and objects which have come to mean something to me. For example, I have a piece of a staircase from my old apartment in this box. It’s a putrid sort of green block with a rusted nail hanging out. I like to think I have it for two reasons: for sentiment and for ensuring I’m up to date on my tetanus shot.

Last night I sat on my floor and shuffled through my memory box because I don’t know why. It sits in a dusted-over corner of my closet and rarely gets attention. There are polaroids in it of people I once knew, but now have zero contact with. Faces I once recognized and cherished now collect dust. All in all, I probably sat there looking through it for 20 minutes. I shuffled my Soundcloud likes which made the whole thing even more sentimental because I don’t listen to Skizzy Mars anymore or Clairo deep cuts.

After dumping everything out onto the floor and making a half-assed attempt at organizing it back in the box, I realized there are so many things surrounding me outside of the box that need to go in, as well. Things from a matter of weeks ago that are now going to collect dust, I thought. Nothing prepares you for the frantic and manic pace of life like adding to a cardboard box, with the words “MEMORY BOX” screaming at you on the side.

Nothing prepares you for the reality that while life is indeed frantic and manic, some things don’t change. For example, I discovered a portrait of myself from elementary school. I wore a black turtleneck. I just had my portrait taken recently, and I was wearing a black turtleneck, completely unaware of the fact that well over a decade ago I still had this same shit grin and a semi-itchy sweater on.

You have to understand this story is about nothing and somehow everything, at least in its relation to me. I did something last night so I write about it. I revisited the past and somehow it spoke to my present.