Sticks and Stones

I've been delaying writing anything this morning. Sometimes I hate that I have to do this, but the lump in my throat won't go away unless I do. It's weird this blogging thing. The privacy of being exposed. Where I can just put myself out there and I don't have to see your reflexes to what I've written, and you can't see the state I'm in as I scramble around on this key board. These "keys" of my heart are most often soaked with tears as I write.

I was going through the papers on my desk this morning. Just trying to keep things tidy. Bills with past due balances, junk mail, lists,endless list of stuff and things. My brothers picture, my number plate and ....the bubble gum wrapper. I taped it to the back of my plate and put the date on it. I went to put it in this box I have where I put stuff like that and it made me think of the cedar,sassafras and quartz. They were sitting here when I wrote that last poem. I couldn't find them. anywhere...
It's funny, this box thing. Every now and again I go through it and pitch the very things I save to remember people or events. I usually do this when I'm sad or anry or just plain bored. When the world and it's people have pained me once again. The items inside become nothing more than just that. Chunks of the material that has made up my life. pain and indifference canceling out the value. How easy it has become to pitch them without a second thought. Kind of like when I used to smoke and it got down to the butt. Out the window it went. totally useless.

It was then that I had to sit down and write. I couldn't find my sticks and stones. I couldn't find the evidence. The compulsion to go run or ride was immense. I wanted to shove all that stuff in the box for what? so I can take it out later and toss it? like it means nothing?

That box has been kind of like my heart, I guess. keeping all the good stuff hidden from everyone. In a way I'm glad that I haven't found them, although I do hope they turn up. They would be doomed for future tossing if I had. I don't want to toss people away any more. So the number plate sits on my desk with the wrapper taped to the back, along with my first broken chain and I wonder...

How do you live outside of the box and still keep your apartment clean?