Memories (

May 28, 2008 - 17:46 PM PST


Memories
By Janine Grey


In my room, next to my overstuffed but rarely used closet, lie two blue photo boxes, no larger or smaller than the average shoe box. They are a strange shade of blue, seemingly changing as the innocence of young times fade to the dark glowing eyes of a demon. The boxes are sturdy, strong, but not unable to bend, yet when filled with one extra piece of sweet, broken memories, the smooth clean surface becomes tarnished and unforgiving.

In my room, next to my overstuffed but rarely used closet, lie two blue photo boxes, no larger or smaller than my reflections. There is a cold, silver metal piece on each box, begging to be stuck with a label of inappropriate proportions. However, nothing is as it seems, just as a photo captures moments but erases time.

In my room, next to my overstuffed but rarely used closet, lie two blue photo boxes, no larger or smaller than the memories I keep in them. They are filled with pictures of all sorts. They are filled with book covers, stickers, and scraps of random paper. The things in my ever changing blue photo boxes help me remember the things I want to forget, and the ones I never do.

In my room, next to my overstuffed but hardly used closet, lie two blue photo boxes. In the first box are many pictures that have been collected over the years of my misinterpreted childhood. There are pictures of my grandparents and parents that draw smiles and tears to a young worn face. They show the happy façade and the good times before the dark despair of death bringing the curious smiles of demons to bay. There are more pictures, as I dig deeper into the depths of memories from years past. I come across pictures of people, school mates of yonder years. I recall the name of few and struggle to know if I ever really knew any of them. Their demon smiles of naïve influences before we knew the world; real people portraying fake images to satisfy the undeniable urge to fit into all the right dungeons, meanwhile, scoffing at the few courageous flying on wings of angels, the boxes never were so agonizingly gloomy.

In my room, next to my overstuffed but rarely used closet, lie two blue photo boxes. In the second box are words that make up dreams which allowed me, and others, to misinterpret my childhood. Quotes from miscellaneous people who have had no relative influence on me save for a sentence or two taken out of context and put in the floating sea of words never said; and books flood the depths of my imagination from momentarily lasting heroism and dreams that hide like the light bulb fish but still so clearly there. Opening and constricting every part of my being. Dig a little deeper and now we’re in the deep blue sea where my secrets start to show. Drawings and art from years before swim in the puddles of long forgotten ideas; hidden to mask the disappointment of many years ago, I’ve become the deep blue something that never was. Still they are nothing more than dreams with bright colors now fading but never truly there; only to be observed by those that hunger for my unknown tragic flaws.

In my room next to my overstuffed but rarely used closet, lie two blue photo boxes. Hidden by the façade, they are memories of stories never told; only imagined as the confines of my memory close off becoming as black as the raven nevermore.