There’s a box in buried my closet. Hidden behind the new, well-kept, and organized clothing. Beneath the various fresh shoes and sequent handbags. There’s a box way, way in the back where no one would notice. A box exploding with memories; seemingly forgotten. Full of faded notes, old pictures, and insignificant mementos; dried flowers, gifted necklaces, and used tissues. The contents display a glimpse into the past, and the many hopeful plans for the future. And covered in dust beneath all the trinkets-a tattered journal. Page after page, tell many emotions and memories; covered with words which were really once more than words, but a soul longing to be heard. Tear stained pages full of unheard cries, bottled up emotions, and long nights of internal struggles. Fighting, fighting to give into the bitterness consuming every thought; struggling, struggling to desperately hang onto the optimism and good soul that was withering away. But the words on the pages of the journal had been closed up for so long, most had faded away and were long gone. And this journal was buried beneath old memories, and covered with a glamorous appearance; which really was nothing more than just an appearance. The box in my closet is tucked away where it can never be seen or remembered. Out of sight, out of mind right? There’s really nothing wrong with some old stuff in the back of your closet. In reality this isn’t about a forgotten box of memories at all, is it? A falling apart hidden box…. I had become just like this box. A vessel of buried memories and faded emotions. The vain of my existence had become a closed up, locked box hidden way in the depths of myself, where no one could see. The world and myself had become masked of the truth; masked by the all-together exterior and glamorous cover that had become my second nature. In the midst of the hiding and shielding; guarding and pushing, I have buried my true self so, so deep within that she is even inaccessible to me. My intentions to be optimistic and force myself to be happy had caused me to lose me. To neglect to acknowledge the emotions I felt and confront the painful memories. To the point where words in a journal do not suffice in coping; words aren’t even enough to explain myself anymore… Struggling to maintain my stability, I just end up in the same predicament. Adding more useless items to a box in my closet; and stacking up emotions that I never plan to deal with, as I increase the distance between myself and others. A vicious cycle this has become. But we are creatures of habit. I understand the ramifications and outcomes, but still I hope for something different just to end up packing up another piece of myself and storing her away to never be found. I’m a glutton for punishment aren’t I?