The box of junk

There are a few moments, trapped in that box of junk. The pressed rose between the pages of a book, the first medal that I won in school and the first love letter someone ever wrote to me. The expensive gift that I received from the colleague, who stabbed me in the back, also lies there.

I learnt to distrust as I grew old, and the emotions that I once felt, lost their sheen. I wonder, if one experience devalues another, adds or takes away from the depth or just makes us see things in a different light.

 

Inspired by In Other Words, Junk at Patricia’s Place

In Other Words, junk…

Pic: engagor.com