cookie monsters
Rows and rows of empty boxes,
waiting for their fills.
Peace, alone, time to waste,
and this handful of pills.
I used to keep a small paper notebook with me at all times. Throughout the day I’d often pull it out quickly to jot down an idea, a daydream, the remnants of a short story flashing through my mind, the chorus to a song, or a quick blurb of prose that seemed profound. Once or twice, I’ve even tried to write while driving or quickly at a stop light. In fact, I really should have gotten one of those personal recorders but hearing my words in my own voice after the fact always ruined it for me.
I don’t keep that notebook any more. I’m still filled with ideas. I still get those quick flashes of clarity. I still find myself tapping into the mind of some imaginary someone and then falling back out again. I still find ways to frame my own situation in the lives of people who are not me. But, I don’t keep the notebook any more.
Much like all the photos I take, there is just never enough time to sort through them all, polish them up, and show them off to people that might enjoy them. In a lot of ways, both the notebook and the photographs are for me alone. But even then, my time is so short, I rarely take a moment to look back over them.
So all of these notes and all of these photos stay with me. I carry them from place to moment as if packed tightly into box after box after box. A few times in the past, either by choice or by accident, I’ve emptied all of those boxes. Seeing them that way brought a sense of peace but, in the end, it was mostly just lonely.
So instead of emptying the boxes, over time, I’ve just stopped filling them up. I take fewer photos. I jot down fewer notes. Yet I maintain the illusion that I’m keeping these days with me always because there are all of these boxes forever following me around.
It’s just an illusion, though. I feel as though sharing my words, my thoughts, and my photos with others will cause them to live forever. Whether it’s peace, clarity, happiness, sadness, arousal, understanding, or knowledge, when something I’ve done carries forward into another life, it’s as though that thing lives on forever like a beneficial virus being passed from carrier to carrier.
With this in mind, it seems simple enough to just share these things, even unpolished. But that conjures up new fears. What if being so prolific and unfiltered in those things causes it to suffer the same fate I often do here in thought? What if all of these photos and moments and thoughts and dreams and ideas so precious to me become nothing but brain vomit to be kicked through and cleaned off of shoes and feet with disgust? What if it just gets in the way? Not only would I have trouble accepting that, it would have an effect the opposite of my intent.