I lock things away in the corner of my mind, but its not pushing them into a corner like a child refusing to cleanup their fresh laundry. No, i neatly compartmentalize. But not in the way that a mother would label her kitchen seasoning, or a cabinet in an accountants file drawer.
As i move into new stages of my life, just as a van arriving to a new house, once the boxes have been unloaded into the new place, where do you start to unpack? These are unlabeled boxes only sorted by the color of their exterior, purple for anger, green for happiness, blue for sadness, black for love as it has turned into this shameful box, this representation of a part of myself that I prefer to stow away, back into the van and have it driver far away from my interior.
Sometimes having no labels mean that you’ve got to open the same box several times to figure out what belongs to what room. If I were to tell you that at this age i still don’t have my interior sorted and figured out, would you believe me?
Every time I am caught of guard, letting love out, showing affections it scares me to death. Maybe because I’m too young, maybe it’s because it took me so long to get my love back after showering my former partner with it to the point where my box was the dark kind of red because i had nothing else to give and it still wasn’t enough. Maybe i got tired of hurting, having to pack and unpack every time when a persons heart didn’t prove to be my home. Maybe im scared of retrying, or maybe its the way that he made me feel when i was scared that causes the affection i seem to have for him despite all my hurt and insecurities.
Two things are certain when you are in the backseat of a reckless drivers vehicle, getting into this car was a terrible laps in judgment and there is no getting out of it when it’s early dark hours of the day in a quite rural area. I was on a verge of a panic attack in an unknown country when I reached out for your hand.
For a period of an hour give or take, as what felt like an eternity to my anxiety ridden soul, you made me feel safe. Safe not in the sense that this car ride was going to be great, or that we wouldn’t crash. I felt safe in knowing that you were there with me, and that between this dangerous driver and this dark road i felt comforted that if we did get hurt or died, we’d be there together. And it Occurred to me yesterday while listening to my new favorite song, isn’t that what life is? A dangerous speeding car in the darkest hours that we don’t have any idea when or how it would stop? And does much more matter than who is there to hold and comfort you for the ride?
Is it worth unpacking all these unlabeled boxes and showing the actual interior of my being with every detail?
Maybe i am tired of hurting, having to pack and unpack every time when a persons heart didn’t prove to be my home. Maybe im scared of retrying, or maybe its the way that he made me feel when i was scared that causes the affection i seem to have for him despite all my hurt and insecurities, Maybe he is my home.
Maybe the fact is that things changed, when you said you are afraid of unpacking your boxes too.
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