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.
Copyright © Bill Sander | Year Posted 2005
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