Up all night again. Having a hard time with the head lately.
Going through boxes inscribed with names of various ex-lovers. Relationships, or close enough, reduced to letters, photographs, and other random useless junk. Hard copy backups of memories long written over in the mind. All taped shut and rotting in the closet since I moved in almost a year and a half ago.
Crack one open just to remind yourself which things change and which things stay the same. You’ll be surprised.
I try to talk myself into throwing it all away, but I never do. Always the packrat, preserving artifacts for my imaginary biographer.
Peer at every photo, reread every word, but none of it ever does any justice to anything. You were there in person, you read the fresh ink. The moment is over. And so, what’s the point?
Why not just let this stuff vanish, like the circumstances that produced it in the first place? The funny and sad thing is, you really would forget.
“Do you always think this much, Charlie?”
“Is that bad?”
“Not necessarily. It’s just that sometimes people use thought to not participate in life.”
“Is that bad?”
“Yes.”
—The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Next time I’m in town, we should exchange boxes and have an over-analysis party. Or maybe we can just have a light discussion over anal. Gross, I know.