The Attic of My Mind
There comes a time, just once a year
When I decide to clear out my attic.
All the rush
and the focus of the months gone past have
Forced away the
thoughts that I store, until they
Are nothing
more than scraps of scrawled-on paper.
So I unload
each boxful, blow off the dust, shift through the notes -
The
memories, the events, the regrets, the opinions -
About the
world around me.
Scrapbooks
and photos, drifting across
The windows
to my mind, blocking my vision until
I can see
nothing but my thoughts. I must
Sort and
stack, pile and pack, each and every scribbled message
To myself.
One cannot
move forward when one is buried in the past.
Re-stack and
re-stock, with those jumbled up ideas, those
Moments of
glee, of sadness, of joy, merged into the months of thinking.
The lost
jigsaw pieces, the broken games, those
Discarded
things I no longer need.
Clothes that
are too old, too torn, too dirty
Or that I
have simply grown out of, piled to be thrown out.
The
forgotten loves, forgotten friends, forgotten photos of
The girl I
once was, long ago. These I wrap in tissue paper,
To protect
from the harsh words of today,
To cherish
in the warm light of tomorrow.
Checked off
and accounted for, added to and removed from,
My thoughts
now collected and categorised,
I pack away
these boxes and bags and tubs of treasures,
My thoughts
about the world. Cardboard lining the walls of
My attic
once more, the spiders now allowed to roam again,
I can let my
thoughts gather dust
Until I
clear them out again.
