The Thing About Us.

     I look around my room as I roll on my bed. I have spent a few days deep cleaning my room and my whole apartment, but actually there is one place I haven't touched, a place that used to be my sanctuary. In fact, I don't think I can call it a 'place', it's an item.

     Just like Pandora's box--it sits on my desk quietly, opened, but in this case, its red LED light is blinking slowly. As if it knows I am approaching, the screen lights up. That is the laptop that has been with me since 5 years ago. The used to be strong gaming laptop, the one which passed out and unrechargeable because the motherboard got rusty, the one which has already gone through factory reset 4 times. Just like the ancient, ancient box of Pandora's. 

     But that box isn't filled with malice, evil, sickness nor death. I can say that it might give similar effect, though. Just like in a trance, I sit on the wheeled chair in front of it, and scroll through TheMail's website that has been opened since God-only-knows when. The content lies in the browser, at TheMail.com, to be exact. It's a website where my ancient e-mail account which I have been using since I was a primary school student.

     As I scroll through the row and row of subjects and a few sentences of the mail's body, I start to pick which services I should unsubscribe from. Domino's Pizza's newsletter with my ex's name? Unsubscribe. The online Italian and Korean language class I have never used in the end? End subscription. No big deal, the cleaning has been going well; until I reach the 'Starred' tab.

      What's the big deal, you ask? Well I have a lot to tell. For instance, there are cheesy gossip e-mails I sent my friends even though we could use instant messaging applications at that time. For instance, candid pictures my classmate took of me, sometimes with my crush at the time. Or for instance, the compilation of pictures with my ex-boyfriend. Apparently, it is my past self's idea of a good additional backup.

     Or for instance, the stories I used to write in the past.

     Just like how the malice and evil and death flows out of the box Pandora opened, I can't stop myself from checking the contents even though my cheek muscles might cramp due to the cringe twitches; no big deal, I tell myself. I can just delete it one by one after checking them, just like how I did my unsubscribing party earlier.. right?

     But, I am not going to lie, this feels like a psychedelic experience. I keep on asking myself, how could I write a Sleeping Beauty rip-off, modernized, without stopping for more than 1000 words, or how could I write a story about me being a delinquent when I was mostly bullied at school, with close friends of mine who are really not suited to be delinquents? The swirls of colors I am falling into make my tears flow without my brain's command even though my eyes feel dry, my head spins, my cheek twitch, and massive nausea. With any strength I have left, I successfully delete everything and empty the Trash, then I shut the laptop hard. 

     HOW COULD I SHOVE THESE ONTO MY FRIENDS TO READ? In each e-mails with one attachments included, there are more than 3 e-mail addresses in the To: column. I don't even recognise some of the addresses anymore.

     Then it dawns on me, that I thought wrong. I thought I am opening the Pandora's box right now by reopening and cleaning this e-mail account; but no. It has been opened before, for people to see, for people to experience. I gasp, and start biting my fingernail as rapidly as the speed of the train of thoughts in my head. How did Pandora return everything that spilled from the box again? A quick Google check and... she didn't. She closed the lid, and worse, contained the last thing inside: something called 'hope'.

     Well, I can't close mine! I can't unsend it! Should I send another e-mail to these addresses to tell them to delete it? But what if they actually have deleted it? What if they think I am so narcissistic to think that they will keep my stories? What if by me asking about it, they might be reminded and reread it again? Aaa--

     But wait...

     If I delete this account, even if they want to blackmail me in the future, I can play dumb, right? I guess this is the only way I can close my box. Then I can pretend I don't know anything about it, and move on. 

     Well, maybe like Pandora's box, there lies a hope inside those stories I wrote. Maybe I can rewrite it, maybe I can read it and laugh in the future, right? But who cares. It's been 10 years since the box is opened, and no such thing as hope has come out. And with that, I delete the account, before moving my cursor to the 'Sign Up' button once more. There, the box is closed for sure now.

     I sigh out of relief, then I proceed to click the other opened tab on my browser. There lies my second Pandora's box-to-be, in progress. I click on the '+ New part' button, and starts typing.

     "I look around my room as I roll on my bed. I have spent a few days deep cleaning my room and my whole apartment, but actually there is one place I haven't touched, a place that used to be my sanctuary. In fact, I don't think I can call it a 'place', it's an item. ..."