What is there to say about the cabinet that lies in the corner of my bedroom?
Nothing really.
It’s wooden, old, dusty.
It squeaks when you open it.
But there is most certainly something to say about what lies within it.
Old toys, some that I still play with out of nostalgia.
I fly them around the room, shouting with all the joy I would have shouted with back then.
Back before all the heartbreak… when the sun still felt warm…
Why doesn’t it feel like that anymore?
Then there’s all those old trading cards.
I never played with them that much.
Nobody would ever play them with me.
I guess they were always fun to look at though.
I’m sure they’ll be worth a pretty penny someday.
Then there are those little things.
Scraps of old paper, drawings.
Little marbles that I used to roll around the house.
I miss the sound they would make when they would hit the wall…
That light tapping sound…
But what can I say of the cabinet?
Probably what the cabinet would say about me.
I do one thing, it does the other.
Makes me feel guilty I don’t show it as much respect as that which it holds within it.
People say it’s all about what’s on the inside.
I wonder how the cabinet would react to that phrase…
