In my mind, there is an attic.
The attic has a wide-set window that overlooks a quiet beach and rolling ocean. Before the window sits a long, low table containing crystals and salts and plants, and a cozy chair for me to dwell in and watch the waves ebb and flow.
The wood floor is softened by colorful rugs; the walls wear intricate tapestries that tell stories of the stars. And lined on one side of the room is a collection of trunks of varying sizes and colors, some covered by swaths of fabric, some left bare. These trunks contain the crystal orbs in which my memories are kept, organized categorically: one for the love I thought I’d always have; one for a girl with whom I self-destructed; one for a boy who commandeered my strings and wouldn’t let go. Prior to their containment, the orbs littered the floor freely, tripping and distracting me. Now they slumber in the dark and know the consequences of awakening and escaping.
The other side of the room still has these glass orbs strewn about, tucked close to the wall. I look at them often, but they aren’t ready to be put away. Sometimes as they dance in my fingers they catch the sunlight and paint the room in arcs of triumphant color. I haven’t decided which trunk they will go in; I am unsure if that trunk even exists yet. All I know is that I have to be careful with them — if they shatter, I’ll have lost an important part of myself, and I value all parts of myself equally, even the parts that aren’t fun to revisit.
I am more than the sum of my memories and experiences, but they are my foundation, the wire the clay is built on. And I have to ensure that my foundation is solid, so each crystal memory must be looked after and taken care of. I am happy and proud to be their steward, and regard them with the reverence and respect they deserve.
Now, I ask you to be present with me as I unravel myself. Bear with me — I live and experience through symbols and metaphors. I assign colors and phenomena to the most mundane so that the fabric of my reality can be as magical as possible. I don’t mince words, but I do summon and wield them in hopes of stirring something within you that will make you feel and think and wonder. I stow my memories and emotions in an idyllic attic where I know that they are safe. But I offer my words to you cautiously, and hope that you’ll take good care of them.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for being here. I hope that you will continue on this journey with me, wending happily through tunnels as we move toward the light — whatever that may be for each of us.