During a recent reunion with five friends from high school (we hadn’t seen eachother in twenty years), we discussed what items we still had from those days. Photos, diaries, letters, notes, Tshirts, year books, that kind of thing. I have very little as since then I have moved around a lot. Therefore, I couldn’t recall the names of every person in the class. As if the past only exists in a box of evidence. Some people readily throw that box out, others hold on to it for dear life and drag it with them wherever they go in life. I suppose it depends on how fulfilling the current life is; is it rich enough to discard of the past?
I asked after the others’ boxes. I said, “please, if ever you plan to throw your box out, could I have it?” I considered a character who might try and own someone else’s past through that person’s box. Or perhaps I could write stories that reconstruct other people’s high school years, create alternate realities of a similar place, neatly contained in various boxes of time.