Box of ashes

It is not so much that I do not recall what was going through my mind at the time; it is what was going through my heart. Sometimes I feel like it is so far but it is so easy to bring the feeling back again. The heart just remembers the pain and all the joy at the same time. They work together see, like veins and arteries flowing to your heart, each needing each other, yet such opposites of each other.

The plethora of memories I have tried to keep alive, are fading like ancient photographs; moments in time, a little evidence of events, if only I could revisit the feeling. The presence is constantly adding stains on the photographs and perhaps one day they will be completely faded with only bits still recognizable.

I never want to forget, but I regret that I have to, as that is what life dictates. We must not live in those memories lest we get stuck there. It steals beauty from today. If today looks bland and colourless, we should fill it with the hope of tomorrow. It might be a beautiful day and maybe it may even rain, but tomorrow you may feel something more genuine than faded emotions that are aroused by a simple song.

It is a day thing, every single day. I affirm to the heavens to bring me an endless joy and I open myself to receiving the joy and joy I have. It is in everything and nothing. It is in me, somewhere but I suppose I would have to shave off some imaginary walls that I have created for my heart.

My heart was placed on a diet. It wants to indulge entirely in feelings but they are futile and feeble. They are like words written in pencil; soon they will fade, even though the writer intended that they last forever. The heart is perhaps in itself, like a child you see; it is pure, without contamination. Its intentions are always clear and good. It needs protection which is why we have to filter and filter what we allow it to indulge in lest we lose it. It is fragile but not futile.

So I recall a time when my heart together with fate led me to the marvellous bliss of drifting far above everyday life. I floated all too well on that bubble and it is a high I cannot find myself with my own efforts. It is a gift, a blessing, which goes on being a blessing long after the source has ceased to exist. So I do give myself permission to reopen that box, let the emotions fill the room, then close it again. I set it back into my cupboard, along with the many other things I have put to death.