Don't you ever wish sometimes that memories were packable, that we could take certain elements of our past and put them away in little black boxes for storage? We could store these little black boxes in the back of our mind, camouflaged against the backdrop of the darkness of the deepest recesses. Hidden in the nooks and crannies of our own cognition, they could be held there, safe and protected from any interference.
And protected there they would lie, until we were ready to reopen them. Then, upon opening up these little black boxes, we would reveal the old memories long removed through the passage of time, held in ways so they couldn't hurt us.
The black boxes are there just as much to protect us from them as them from damage.
Opening up the box, and letting out the ghosts, the memories would be returned to a luster and shine that felt new, felt novel, was exciting again. They would be just as we left them so long ago, still permeating with the smell of what once was, and what you pray every night might be once again.
At the same time, these memories wouldn't be new, of course. They'd be old in a very important way, attached to a past you. But therein lies the joy of opening an old box: it will be both familiar and new, strange to who you are now in a way, but influential on who you were once. We as humans are never truly removed from our pasts, so maybe, just maybe, there is hope in little black boxes for a future.
A future where the memories don't need to be hidden in those little black boxes.
And protected there they would lie, until we were ready to reopen them. Then, upon opening up these little black boxes, we would reveal the old memories long removed through the passage of time, held in ways so they couldn't hurt us.
The black boxes are there just as much to protect us from them as them from damage.
Opening up the box, and letting out the ghosts, the memories would be returned to a luster and shine that felt new, felt novel, was exciting again. They would be just as we left them so long ago, still permeating with the smell of what once was, and what you pray every night might be once again.
At the same time, these memories wouldn't be new, of course. They'd be old in a very important way, attached to a past you. But therein lies the joy of opening an old box: it will be both familiar and new, strange to who you are now in a way, but influential on who you were once. We as humans are never truly removed from our pasts, so maybe, just maybe, there is hope in little black boxes for a future.
A future where the memories don't need to be hidden in those little black boxes.
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