I freaked out yesterday. After a night with fondue and wine and a lot of talk about feelings, I discovered myself as a cashless person. And so. We were talking about love letters and poetry. I stated that I never received or sent any. So far so good. I've been single for six years and I'm a difficult person, I confess.
Things went south when my friend came back from the room with a box. That little thing could never have done such a big damage to a person, even if it was made of iron. Measuring just over 30cmx10x15, it was purple and inside there were thousands and thousands of letters, memories, loving and affectionate notes. He opened the box and the tear glands in my eyes at the same time. In a vain attempt to not care, I asked those present if they all had the same or similar boxes. To my dismay, the answer was affirmative.
I didn't react for a long time. Thinking and trying at some point in my life to find out if I had even a box of matches to call my own. Sad illusion. Did not have. I never have and I don't think I ever will. I cried and went home wondering if the problem was the object or the (non) owner of the object. The second option prevailed. First, I thought it was cold. Then, live the present so intensely that I forget the past. I still thought it could be my lack of organization, because I remembered that I have a postcard from Junior from when he was in France and a note from Elita and another from Giovanna among my mess.
Today during lunch with William, a newsroom reporter, he confessed that he also has a box, but with more things from friends than loves. I thought I would do some research and see how many people have their own box. But I'm taking a risk, that in this research I may discover a truth that I don't want to see. It's going to be….
I found it to be a very good and economical solution. I went to the supermarket and now I'm devouring my häagen daz – alone and without sharing it with anyone.
I exchanged a box for a jar. And without a past or future, I devour him with desire and passion.
