I’ve finally settled on a good description for my internals, my mind, body and soul you may say. They currently resemble a Kennards storage centre that has been ripped apart by a rogue, overfilled cardboard box. This in turn has created a chain reaction of explosions and now there are torn remnants of cardboard and scattered memories everywhere. It’s going to be a massive fucking cleanup and unfortunately, there is no clear starting point. It’s just messy.
I could start with some of the smaller boxes, the ones that only have a limited amount of damage. They are smouldering on the outer edges, the wispy trails of smoke filing out of their sides I am positive are just superficial and are just there are consequences of the other, bigger boxes. These are tiny boxes that haven’t, and will not be, opened. Ever. They contain small memory pockets that can just be forgotten; the roaming, over-friendly hands of a boy who was told more than once to stop, the street corner where you found yourself waiting and waiting for a guiding light when you were ‘removed’ from your home. They are boxes easily taped, cracks so barely noticeable. Nothing to worry about.
Perhaps I should tackle the junk box? That one where you cram all the shit that just doesn’t fit into the others and the crap that doesn’t deserve its own. It contains fleeting five-minute crushes, $500 ‘I want to look like Daria Werbowy but will never, ever wear this’ dresses and a smattering of those texts/emails/calls you truly wish you had never been drunk enough to make. The junk box was right near the epicentre of the explosion, but in all honestly it is just a box of random shit. Nothing terribly painful and nothing you can’t escape in future (I’m sure I’ll live to tell the tales of high-school crush turned ugly at 10yr reunion).
I guess I could begin with the problem. But that ain’t no fun at all. I know what made it burst. Cramming it full of failed relationships, broken friendships, stresses over uni and finances, inescapable family tensions. It was all piled up neatly in chronological order and now it is everywhere. Little smouldering heaps of carnage that have flown far and wide. There is shit all chance of me touching them when they could singe my hands still, burning embers have already gotten into my eyes and made them begin to tear up. No. I won’t deal with that one.
Maybe I should just close the door. It’s all a little overwhelming and I have better things to do with my time. If I close the door and let them sizzle maybe the Gods of Fire shall take pity on me and let the whole thing burn itself into a powdery ash, ready to be swept up and a fresh start to begin.
If not, I can always just get more boxes.