I've actually told very people I know and knew about my box.

I have a box that I keep all of my precious things in. Usually the significance of these things is lost on others. Scribbles on scraps of paper, torn photographs, a piece of some odd and end fill a rather unremarkable shoebox.

I have had my shoebox hidden from myself for approximately three months now. I couldn't look at it or look in it, and for some time I may have actually forgotten about its existence. It's only in cleaning my room, which has been necessary at this point, that I stumbled over my box again.

At first, it was with fear. I settled into a soft sort of hollow feeling and opened it. I went through it and my hands shook so badly when I found what I had not wanted to find.

In fact, I don't believe I even remembered putting it in my box until now. [Though this may have been a trick of my own mind for protection.] I'm sure if I had remembered that I would not have ever approached the box in the first place. I would have handled it, much like a bomb, and placed it somewhere deeper in my closet where the chances of finding it would be slim.

I think I was still hollow until I read this:

I just hope this pen is enough to carry the feeling of my words, and I care about you deeply- even when it's difficult to show it. I feel safe around you, more than I ever have around anyone else, and all I want is to be able to make you feel safe- safe to tell the truth, safe to be able to be happy or sad, safe enough to always be who you are, and know I will love you no matter what it is.

I'm not exactly eloquent, but I hope you can curl up with this and smile.


I have a scrap of paper with purple writing on it with a set of numbers, another with an address, and a CD [in addition to an envelope and letter.]

Somewhere along the line I wept. The ink is smudged in a few places. My cell phone is a trooper. It ended up thrown against the wall somewhere along the line. [It isn't broken which is a beautiful thing seeing as I can't afford a new one at the moment.]

It's always somewhere along the line because my mind rarely assigns dates and times to anything. There is before and after and the gray period between the two where things lose shape and are only caught in sounds, feelings, and flashes of color.

My mind stopped writing a narrative somewhere along the line because the story became too horrific. [I've lived through some fairly twisted things, and it's not too often my mental hand pauses and waits something out.]

That is how I usually end up remembering things, as a story. A story without dates and times, but all the important things are present. Sometimes, I close my eyes and I know I am there again. I am there six months ago, a year ago, two years ago. I am not so out of touch with who I was and who I am... that those memories ever cease to be real and meaningful.

My mouth is moving, and there are no words coming out. God, if my expression could be seen though... then all would be understood.

[I just needed a place to rest my head. I appreciate your patience, Reader, more than you know.]