Memory Box

I opened a shoebox full of memory stuff tonight. It was to get the letter I wrote to myself when I was twelve (it wasn't nine, I was wrong). Even though I wasn't supposed to open it for another three years, I opened it anyway. It was as pointless as guessed it would be.

What struck me though, was how pointless everything else in the box was. Sure, there were some jems like a picture of my mom as a kid, but for the most part it was just crap. It meant nothing to me. Reminders of things that happened long ago that don't touch any part of my spirit.

Jesus wasn't kidding when He said you had to be born again. Looking at me back then is like looking at pictures of someone famous; you see them all the time but you've got no idea who they really are. Maybe it's just getting older, or maybe there's enough I'd rather forget. I don't know. Though my childhood wasn't terribly screwed up, sometimes it reminds me of Wonderful by Everclear ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-8V36mWUVFc ).

Well, 'night all!