Prisoner of Mirrors

I’ve tried repeatedly to forget, but it’s difficult to grasp forgetfulness when those small, magical boxes are locked inside us. These boxes contain all our memories, sweet and bitter, old and new. No matter how much we may seem to have forgotten them, they remain buried deep within us, retaining the smallest details. They are locked in the heart of that tightly locked box, the keys to which we don’t hold, but rather, their keys hover around us everywhere without us even realizing them. The key might be a song we hear by chance, opening the box of memories, not taking us to the past, but bringing the past with all its details to where we are. The key might be a perfume, trapping us in a place, reminding us of the owners of the perfume and the time they lived. Their scents invade us, their voices surround us, and we quickly find them before us, taking the shortest paths from the various cities of the past to the capital of the present. Memory boxes may open due to a certain temperature, felt by the body as the seasons change. When winter knocks on the door, our bodies begin searching for those who make us feel warm. The boxes may scatter their contents when we step foot in familiar places where nothing has changed, everything present except the time and the people who have disappeared.