There’s this compartment in my head. A black wooden box, if you will. That’s where I put all the things that go unsaid. All the things I want to say to people which I don’t.

Sometimes they are sweet things that I know will be misconstrued as cheesy. Sometimes they are mean things that I will later regret saying.

All the words melt into each other inside the box, like little parts of me that found no expression.
Sometimes I force myself to follow the 15 minute rule. 15 minutes is how long it takes for me to get over the momentary rage or hurt of something, atleast calm down long enough to not say vindictive things. That’s the time, the black box begins to burst at the seams with the intensity of all that gets flung into it.

The box sometimes gets a rest and the blog becomes another box; one outside of me where in broken, cryptic words I say the things I didn’t get myself to say out aloud.

There comes a proverbial point in all our lives, when we realize that there are some things that no one else will understand, no matter how close they may be.

At times like these, everyone needs a black box.

De-clutter

The mind now looks like the big plastic barrels at sales, where clothes are falling out – but the good stuff is usually hidden. One has to brave through layers of ugly, frilly dresses and cast them aside to finally find something that is pretty and well fitted.

I walk through my mental bylanes for a while, with a rake in my hand and a waste paper basket under the other. I poke and prod at potential waste, collecting crumbling debris and stale things. It’s confusing in here – some parts are chaotic with loud thumping sounds, some are deathly quiet. I am not sure which is more tedious.

I am moving slowly through untouched memories that have a thin layer of dust. I am not sure whether they deserve any jabs with my rake; lest I throw open a trunk of reptilian things that coil themselves around me. I try and find ways to gauge whether the contents are pleasant or otherwise, but that can’t be concluded. Eventually, I spend an hour sitting cross legged on the quivering floor, segregating this little capsules of emotion, all while holding my breath.

I look at a paper carton which looks like a collage of people and almost instantly I take it and tape it shut. It isn’t just anger. It’s also regret. The box has met its end.

By the end of my little journey, I am dragging with me not just the rake and the garbage bin, but also the cartons and balled up remnants of the times gone by that deserve no emotional space.
I throw them all away, in a grand sweeping action, from the top of the world.

I then walk back, dusting my hands. It’s been a good day.