The Boxes In My Head

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My house has been taken over by boxes. I’ve held it off for as long as possible, but now its time; I step into my room, knowing after today it will never be mine again. My old wood desk cluttered with a myriad of books, mugs, craypas, and countless sticky notes of reminders and to-do lists, most of which are yet to be accomplished. The blue dragon patterned headband I wore when I went to the , and it shows me what I am; I am the Hula-Girl who dances on the Russain-Safari Zebra next to the yawning cat who plays with the glass from Venice just like the mask in front of the Z and the green-apple squash ball rolling around over the corral near the language rocks of a distant childhood. I realized everyone who I will ever meet will be placed inside my head, in a box, and each and every person, every memory they give me, will become a part of me.
I look around, all things carefully stored, placed, and crammed, all into boxes. I smile; I know that my memories are stored just the same, crammed into corners of my mind, yet the best part is that because its me, and neatness does not exist within, they tumble out with all their colors and shapes, blurring together into one giant mess I call myself.





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