all those folders and notebooks and stacks of old schoolwork in boxes? they've been transferred out of my parents' basement, into my own little house. one of them is a box from some youth activity way back when I was a teenager, and it is plastered with magazine cut-outs. take a plain box, they said, and make it yours. cover it with you-like symbols and fill it with special things. and also here is a white five-gallon bucket. decorate the thing so you'll be able to tell it apart from every other five-gallon bucket at girls' camp.
some of these peeling magazine clippings have more of current-me in them than others. or is there a better way to phrase that? current-me can somehow see herself in a few of these old scuffed bits of glued-on magazine. certain scuffed bits somehow remain relevant to whatever has happened to my identity in the last eighteen-ish years. sections of this me-ish-collage haven't been as abandoned or transmogrified as others have. something like that. for instance: I still love being barefoot. chocolate cream pies will never not be cool. Cinderella is simply an ideal fairytale, for some reason.
but kittens and pink-robed angels? paintings of glossy brown horses? hrm.
so far I haven't gotten past musing at the boxes' outsides yet. when I open them, I'm sure the insides will surprise me just as much with their own forgotten, distant, not-quite-me-anymore-ness.