Hi, this is a poetic text about how I deal with dark memories. Until today I am struggling with them. Often I just try don’t to remember at all. But in this text I try to describe how I would like to deal with them. Maybe someone can identify with it. Perhaps this text will help others deal with bad things that happened to them.
As so often before, I stand in this room again. On each of its four walls, there is a huge shelf full of all kinds of little boxes. Each box looks different. Some are colorful and decorated with many different patterns and sometimes even real situations: you see children playing together and laughing together, you see flower meadows and other beautiful landscapes, a family being together and much more is depicted on the boxes.
Even before you open this kind of boxes, you look forward to the moment to look at, take out, touch and rejoice in the long known, yet always new joyful content. These are my favorite boxes.
But unfortunately there are others, not so colorfully decorated. They are often monochromatic, painted with rather dark colors. Those that have pictures of real situations often show sad and painful scenarios.
These boxes I do not like to open and when I do, I look at and touch their content rather with a certain discomfort and sadness.
Usually it doesn’t take long and I quickly close a box of this kind again, because I can’t bear the pain that fills me for long.
Lastly, there is a third type of box. These boxes are painted completely black and every time I open one of them, the shivers run down my spine and the tears down my cheeks. My hands shake when I take one of these boxes out off the shelf.
Each time it is a hard struggle to get myself to open a black box that I have taken off the shelf and not just put it back on the shelf.
However, I know very well that it is necessary. Because if I don’t open these boxes, they will always stand as black boxes in some corner of my shelf and hover over my life like a dark shadow.
When I do open them, however, something wonderful happens:
I take out the contents in pain and tears, look at it and touch it, and then I get up and take it to my friend. And every time I come back to him with such a box, he looks at me with compassion, takes it from me and comforts me. *With him I can cry as long as I want. I can tell him how much a box has hurt me, or how sorry I am for a box. I don’t have to be afraid of being rejected or rebuked by him, because he always has time for me, is never annoyed, but always kind and compassionate.
Even when I come with a box several times, he does not send me away, but listens to me anew and comforts me.
But the most beautiful thing is that when he returns a box to me, it is no longer black. He never returns black boxes to me, but always brighter ones. Sometimes he even turns a black box into a colorful one.
The boxes in this text are my memories. The friend I mention is God.
God bless everyone who reads this.