musings on a silver shoebox.

So I was going through some old (like haven't been opened since we moved here old) boxes a couple of days ago. I was making room in the top of a closet, and figured I would clean the boxes out. I legit labeled them "this box is completely random" when we moved. Talk about some great packing skills.

So I'm going through these boxes. Picture frames, Christmas ornaments, assortments of random desktop items. A few stuffed animals that I forgot I even had. Then I found the box.
As you can see, the box is a silver sketchers box that contains...everything. All of my writings. These things go back to when I was thirteen or fourteen years old. It all started with the book on the top left, the one with the nine inch nails sticker. Lots of books. I loved Powerpuff Girls, ok? Composition books. Notebooks. There is a Sailor Moon book under there. Also those nifty books with the black paper to use with gel pens, those were awesome. What seems like a million sheets of paper. I want to sit and soak in this box. It would take ages. Would it help my memory? If you didn't know already, I have large gaps in my memories. I've only read a few and realized I had feelings deeper for some people/situations than I thought previously.
I'm tempted to consolidate, to put them all in one book, one file, something. But these papers, some of them yellowed with time, are raw. These are words from a girl I once was. Heartbroken words. Hopeful words. The scribbles mean something. The words obviously flowed on some pieces, but others are full of scratched out words. Some pages have coffee stains. Many have tear stains. This box tells a story. My story. It holds all my deep dark secrets, my heart. I'm tempted to put it away again, to hide it all from the world.