A Box For Forgetting

I am dreaming. I know I am dreaming. It is more important than life, better than living. I am in a dark room. The door is ajar and a bar of sunlight illuminates two rosewood boxes. One is much larger than the other. Both are intricately scrolled and heavily lacquered. One box is for remembering, the other for forgetting. I can fill them as I wish. I need to forget more than I want to remember. A woman. It’s not the bad times that haunt me. It’s the good times that I pour and pour into the large box. It’s like crying. It’s like vomiting. It’s like crapping. It is over. I leave light. Everything awaits me.