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A cardboard box filled with things from your past. Memories. In a box. Memory box.

Memory boxes are only for small things. Things that are memories of things that are over. lost love. old friends. things that are too good to be forgotten.

Memory boxes are kind of like diaries. You put things in them. Things that mean something to you. Things that will awake memories.

Going through my memory box today, I realized I have done a lot in my life. It made me want to do more. If my house ever burnt down, of my posessions, I would only grab my memory box and run. nothing else matters.

Everybody should have a memory box


love letters // old tickets // postcards // year books // pass photos // your first driving license // old passports // airplane ticket stubs // recipes // that ring you just can't throw away // your first paycheck // your diary // trinkets // poems you have written // pictures that mean something special // your first checkbook // bags of oolong tea


the oolong man has an almost-useless things box
NatchLucid has a heart-shaped box which functions the same way, but looks cooler
wertperch's memorybox is itself a memory - a box his grandfather made. "Grandpa's box" is filled with his memories, going back 30+ years
clepsydra, in attempt to move away from the things in her past that hurt her, threw her memory box away
ascorbic has too many memory boxes, and needs to learn to throw stuff away
bexxta has several memory boxes, and memories scattered through her room. She should work on getting them all together.
dreamvirus gives or throws everything away sooner or later. His head is his memory box.
briglass has a handful of old and now empty memory boxes that he stores in a meta-memory box.

i went over to his place to pick up a box, brought it home. a box filled with old memories. notebooks. ticket stubs. photographs and letters. i didn't mean to go through it - not really. but there sat my life, in the form of crinkled paper and scribbled words.

words of old. words that make me cringe at the absurdity, or wastefulness. or both. things i'd forgotten, people i'd known, even here. birthday and post cards from far away lands, from people who knew me once, now forgotten. so many letters, and yet... i know i never wrote back, not once.

i found a letter to myself there, dated '97. and i remembered that even then i could see it, just a little, that some day... some day i'd find my way. some day i'd, you know, make it. push through the piles of crap that imprisoned me.

it reminded me of the days i wandered aimlessly through life, drifting and drifting, stuck in a limbo at times. and it reminded me of the hope i had, even then.

i am not who i once was. not quite. i still have scars and smudged blotches and there are days the heat of the sun on my cheek goes unnoticed. there are days i might remember more, just a little, what is was like to be forever filled with an insatiable longing. for something. for anything.

but no. i am not who i once was.

so i put all my memories back into that old cardboard box, and tuck it away in the corner of my closet. to be remembered again, someday.

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