Write about: the memory box.
Spent part of the day going through boxes of my old stuff that were moved from the old house. There's not really space for it here, so it's a matter of choosing which stuff can be: a) donated, b) recycled, c) trashed, d) kept here until I have space for it at my own house, and e) kept and brought home this trip.
So far it's been a whole lot of b and c, with a little bit of a, d, and e. It's slow going though, because it's pretty much impossible for me to not linger over items that trigger so many memories. I'd honestly forgotten about so much of that stuff.
Anyway, prompt inspiration.
It appears so plain and unimportant on the outside. As though nothing of interest could possibly reside within. Neglect me, it seems to say. Let dust conceal my existence from the outside world.
But I see you. I know exactly where you are. More importantly, I know what you hold inside your walls.
There is only one question left for me to answer now. Standing here before this simple box I'm still unsure of my answer. It is not a complicated question, but it fills me with doubt and leaves me deeply, deeply conflicted.
It is a question with only two possible answers. That's all. I can feel the two sides battling inside my skull, crashing into each other before swirling away into chaos as they prepare their next attack. It should not be this difficult to answer such a seemingly straightforward question.
Deep breath. Deep breath.
Should I open it?