At home I have a box of clothes that I haven’t opened in a year, maybe two. I put them there because I had no place to put them. I can’t remember what’s in it, but I’ll crack it open and see what’s there.
I could put my feelings, my heart, in a box, never to be touched, unwanted, forgotten, left to gather dust. Could, but I won’t. My heart works best outside of that box. This is something I must always remember.