Ten years of drawer space fits inside a box,
I slot it all neatly, edge to edge
The pockets of empty space in between
Filled in with the left-overs of dusty recollections.
Sitting on my bed in the center of my room,
Watching the pieces of my life coming together,
I feel myself float away;
The spinning fan my perfect counterpart.
Fluorescent lights illuminate every corner,
Blank walls glare harshly back at me,
Questioning their lack of adornment,
The loss of their finery.
But I myself am numb, as I watch everything be removed
To the same brown packages from which
A colorful life had once exploded
Onto the walls of this once-home.
Is this what Life amounts to?
Look at those memories so neatly packed away,
A different sort of Occlumency;
Hidden, however, even from myself.
Washed up, perhaps, on the shores of my subconscious,
The detritus of my life, bobbing in the shallows,
Driftwood, shells, and shifting sands are all that remain
Links to fragments of memories,
Now locked away.
Echoes inhabit my room now
Shouting back at me even my softest whispers,
I make my escape; from looking out to looking in,
Momentarily free, before being boxed up again.
© Ruth P. – 2016
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