Boxes

Aug. 27th, 2014 12:00 pm
farawaytimes: (Default)
[personal profile] farawaytimes
It's packing day. I'm sitting before two cardboard boxes: one for the things I want to bring along with me; one for the things I want to leave behind, but still keep for old time's sake.

In the first go my drawing supplies, office supplies, electronics, cat pictures, good books and miscellaneous adapter cables. In the second go my power cables (they're not going to work up north), trading card games, unused notebooks and books I don't like that much but that would be a crime to get rid of.

Everything else - bad sketches, expired medicine, scratched DVDs - goes into the trash, to be forever lost.

I'm holding a tarp bag just large enough to hold all the little trinkets and letters Julia sent me. Which box should I put it in?

Which box should I put Julia in?



Not in the trash, for sure. I don't have the heart.

I will happily throw away everything I have no use for, except beautiful things. I don't have the heart to let go of beautiful things, even after their beauty has become just a memory. I keep pictures of cats long past; I keep my dad's little gifts even though he doesn't remember giving me most of them; I keep a marbled stone from every trip to the beach; I keep the best of my childhood toys, comic books, pencils; everything I ever felt strongly for.

I don't have the heart to let go of Julia. She was my fairytale come true. Believing in fairytales is naive, they all said, but we were going to prove them all wrong.

I still want to believe in us, even if just for the sake of believing in something impossible. Martyr complex, maybe? Or maybe I just think we should all try to believe in the impossible. After all, taking action towards impossible things sometimes makes them a little less impossible.

Either way, if I'm going to believe, I'd rather believe from afar, just in a corner of my head. Actually interacting with Julia only makes everything worse and changes me into a more bitter person because it reminds me of all the affection and trust we've lost and may never get back. I need to cut my losses. I won't let idealism drive me to the point of self-destruction. That was my dad's mistake; it won't be mine.



One of Julia's gifts was a teddy bear. He came with a soulmate; a patch of velcro in their paws allowed them to hold hands, and magnets in their snouts allowed them to kiss. They were fated to reunite one day. They would run to each other in slow motion, romantic music would play from out of nowhere, and they would join in an emotive embrace. That bear represented Julia's commitment to me.

He's going in the first box. I'm bringing him along. But not necessarily to be reunited with his bride. I know he can survive without her, he can see the world without her. He stands for independence now.
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