Seven year snapshot.

I sift through an old shoebox. The contents of this box vary from a broken vial with a loose cork plunger to old figurines to pay stubs to the dozens of nondescript papers. I look mostly for things with my name and address that should've been shredded years ago. This is an act of mixed paranoia and housekeeping.

I find old lined notepaper with stylized flames watermarked into the background. 2003 our 2004, about. There are notes from a class, telling me what "parsimonious" means. A long, detailed list of rare Magic cards I no longer own and the prices they would've cost if they weren't stolen. I wrote this in early 2004, I think. I find a love poem about a girl crushing on a boy in someone else's handwriting. I can't place who the script belongs to, but I realize I was the subject. I most likely didn't realize this in high school, as I missed a lot of little things like this at the time.

Idly I throw the poem into the recycling box. Old memories are nice, but seven years is much longer ago than I'd like to say it feels. The realization that I could've potentially been with nearly anyone of my choice doesn't feel all that nice so far after the fact. While it's a sign that I was grounded more in the things that mattered to me, and should be taken as a good thing, I don't have the time, need, or use for sentiment right now.

The rest of the box is carefully sorted, discarded, and then the box itself is broken into manageable sections to be recycled. The space it occupied will be better used for my old Yamaha PSR-6, or the hacked X-Box a friend gave me to make space. Perhaps it'll just stay open, ready for whatever should be in its place.

Sometimes history needs to be discarded. Sometimes it should just be recycled.