Ménage #1

A house filled with packed stuffs, full of boxes of unpacked memories.

And if only I could find the will to unpack them, the strength to stack them on the shelf and let them watch me grow. But my memories are liquid, and they don’t know how to hold a form too.

A house filled with books of stories; of words narrating a precious journey. If only the words know how to let their claws out, and etch themselves to time. But my words are weak, jumbled, and they no longer remember how to tell a story. Perhaps the box should stay packed.

A house filled with footsteps of those coming and going, but never staying. Footsteps heavy with dreams of youth; footsteps that didn’t know when nor where to stop. Footsteps with no anchor that just kept on walking, running, and the occassional jumping. They keep on moving.

Houses housing memories of a human child that doesn’t know how to stay. A human child that floats on life’s boat, hoping to find a stop. A stop that would grant the human body rest, but the human child doesn’t know how to stop. Because memories — the good ones usually keep their silence and the painful ones louden up their whispers for attention — memories don’t know how to stop either.

So the houses started to morph into one, confused group of memories dancing together in an exuberant chaos, not knowing how to stop either. Familiar places start to feel strange; like you knew it but you don’t anymore. Familiar faces start to seem cold; you know of their warmth, but perhaps that was your own hopeful eyes staring back at you.

I feel hollow in a world so loud. I feel odd in a world of strange things. I feel tired of packing unpacked memories, labelling meanings to them, and packing them again once their claws found an opening. I feel limited — like a box of jumbled up memories, of disorganized thoughts— in a world full infinities.

Perhaps my memories should stay packed — never opened.