How can memories fit in a box?
I'm sitting here looking at the now mostly bare walls in my room and I'm sad. As I took down each photo, each memory, I found myself laughing a lot. I remembered staying up late putting all this up and just talking to the roommie while we pounded nails away to the wee hours of the night. This room resonates with so many good times. Now there's no sounds, no roommie, and emptiness. Now that it's all said and done, it really sucks. Here, in not so many boxes, bags, and trash lies the last three years of my life. It's hard to just pack up and go. It was a good run... Why does it have to end?
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