Memory Boxes

Memory is not an archive of the past, but a frozen present in which we live without pause. Every time we try to bury what hurts, it returns to grow more vividly in the soil of our dreams. We are prisoners of stories we ourselves created, opening their old boxes not to retrieve them, but to confirm that the pain is still alive. It is the greatest deception; we imagine we are moving forward, while we are merely orbiting the events we once refused to forget.