This morning bought with itself an idea.
An idea that I should clean my room.
I started by making my bed.
I picked up the novels and kept them in a rack.
I picked up the clothes and kept them for washing.
I then cleaned the floor.
Then I cleaned the closet and the almirahs.
All but one.
When I opened this almirah, I found a box.
Inside the box were razors and cutters.
Seeing them bought back memories.
Memories of blood, scars.
Memories of how I’d wear full sleeves shirts and never let anyone touch my arms.
Memories of the now faded cuts.
I found a diary too.
A diary, full of half-torn pages with failed attempts of writing a suicide note.
A diary, full of failure to explain unexplainable feelings.
I found an album too.
An album is full of pictures from childhood.
Pictures full of smiles and laughs.
Pictures with people we left behind.
Pictures of the long-gone happiness.
I found toys.
Toys I’d run with around the house.
The house that no longer felt home.
The house that was now a graveyard of happiness and memories.
I found letters.
Letters we as kids would write to each other.
The kids in us that we lost long ago.
The innocence that got replaced by hate.
Opening this almirah bought with itself memories.
Memories of a lost childhood, lost innocence and lost people.
Memories I had been pretending never existed.
Cleaning my room wasn’t the best idea after all.
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