Pandora's Box

Ancient Greek myth tells of the first human being to walk the Earth, the legend of Pandora. Her name has gone down in the books as being associated with the wonderfully dreadful Pandora's Box. The myth behind the box is the real story, of course. The story tells that all of mankind's greatest emotions, feelings, capabilities were all locked up in the box. When the box is opened, they all come rushing out.

The result is a sort of apocalypse, from what I know of the box. It's like the scene in The Doors (the movie); Morrison is asked, "Do you believe in drugs?" to which he replies, "I believe in excess." The box contains excess. Everything is destructive in excess. The world can't handle it. Anger, fear, grief, hatred, wrath, sorrow - they all get out. They rip the world of humans apart.

All that's left in the box is hope. Hope, hidden away down in the corner, always there. It's the very last thing we have.

Why am I talking about this? I suppose, at the risk of sounding mightier-than-thou, I'm comparing myself to Pandora's Box, with less potential to end the world. A few weeks ago I made a deal - whenever my friend and I had problems, we'd talk. The risk in this is that I may have taken advantage of the chance to talk. I opened up too much, and everything came out, all at once, all in excess. There's still some left. I can feel it there. I know I have so much more to say, but I'm afraid of letting that box open again, in case it doesn't close so well the next time.

But I have to. I have to tell him particular things. I have to let him know about some things that were going through my head these past few weeks, things that have been nagging at me. Little bits of crazy, I suppose. I can't just send him all the info in an email, or whatever. Even Facebook chat seems a bit too impersonal. I'd be afraid of talking on the phone, in case I'm overheard. And I haven't seen him since the 12th. I haven't spoken to him properly since Saturday. That doesn't seem too long, I know, except that it didn't end on the highest of notes.

The box is open. The box is open, and there's still too much left in it to get to the hope. Not that I only want the hope. The hope is the very last step. If I get to the stage where I'm clinging on to hope, then something's gone wrong. At that stage, I can't still be at home. I can't be out of college still. I have to be able to see people, to fill the box with something else, with happiness, with good memories. Too much is getting out, and I'm remembering it all too quickly. It's all coming back too quickly. This isn't just memories. These are pent up feelings from years gone by.

There's been too much in my past to get over this quickly. I just need to get something off my chest. I can't do it here. I can't tell anyone. Well, not anyone. I can't tell everyone. And I don't want to tell everyone else. It's not that I don't trust people, I just know them too well. I don't want people to look at me and only see the things that I tell them. I know they would, even if they don't want to. So I need to tell someone, someone very specific, and for very specific reasons.

It's not all bad, I should add. Sure, all these bad things are coming back, but I do get my moments of relief. I just don't get a chance for them whenever I need them. Too much time, not enough plans. Sure, 24500 words of fiction since Thursday, but what use is that to me if I don't have my friends around to talk to about something that's not the very insane ideas going through my head?

Just give it time, I suppose. I can sort this out. You'll know when I do. I'll announce it, probably. Or I'll just stop moaning.