In these drawers are the compartments of myself I keep hidden. Sealed in envelopes, wrapped up in boxes, buried in thoughts. These are extensions of me, they further my understanding of who I am. I keep these because the past is important, the past is pertinent and the past affects my understanding of things present and things yet to come. The connection is no longer there however. The lines I am reading trigger brief physiological responses from time to time: a skipped heartbeat, labored breaths, a convection of sorts, a transfer of the ink on the page onto my skin. I rub it and it smudges. Just like all this compressed time has smudged. Archived and safe but no longer accurate. I cannot remember anymore. I rub the ink on my skin again and again until it almost disappears.
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