Apearances Can Be Decptive

I live in squalor. In splendid, unclean solitude. In a small room at the top of a very tall house. This is where I live.

In my very small room, at the top of my very tall house, there is a box.

It is not in any way distinguished- I have neither labled it, or given it a tidy corner to live in. It looks like all the other boxes: cardboard, fragile and expendable.

But in this box are cherished things, which I have collected and, although they are hidden, knowing they are there makes my small room, full of squalor and gloom, seem less forsaken.

In this box are special moments. I keep them, in my box, where they are safe and untouched by monsters.

There are photographs, of a beautiful day, a heart-stopping storm, a tragic accident, a lovely view, a handsome couple of two ugly people, special photographs, good or bad.

In this box, there are scraps of paper, letters describing events, or invitations, even to myself, for vent. There are poems and short stories, memories captured with someones pen, or the perfect phrasing, on paper. There are drawings of moments so fragile and fleeting that words alone are not enough: these are not beautiful drawings, I am no artist. But they evoke beautiful memories.

In this box, there are objects. A piece of string, a sharp rock, and a shiny one, a small plastic toy, a bit of material, an old burnt pen, the spent lighterm and a useless, broken fan.

I collect thoughts, in a small box, in a small room, at the top of a tall house.

The box is not important.

The contents are.