Cardboard towers reveal memories
BOXES, piled as high as skyscrapers; populated with nostalgia.
The attic was always full of them, but seemingly could always make room for more.
To some, they were piles of rubbish; wasted space.
To you, they were an escape; time travel with the simple prying of a box.
Personal time capsules for every decade, year and memory.
Not all of the skyscrapers belonged to you though.
Smaller towers, brimming with ambition — not yet as beloved — made bold attempts to scrape the ceiling sky.
Their height would come with time, and reminiscence.
One day I’d find this out, once my tower began to scuff the fluorescent stars.
With both hands, you detached a storey from the tallest skyscraper.
Peeling back parched, packaged ceiling, your eternal cargo emerged.
Nostalgiainducing vestiges choked the cardboard room. A remote retrospective.
You browsed through the archaic library, wishing for a chance encounter with Father Time. Old fingerprints renewed.
You plucked a puzzling parchment from the shelf; it reeked of arrogance and juvenile burdens, accompanied by a curious whiff of insight and sagacity.
A highschool assignment — never submitted.
In the space below, write a letter addressed to your future self.
Think about what to ask yourself, what you might be doing in the future, and what you might have accomplished. Write at least 150 words.
Dear Adrian, Did you do it? Did you succeed? Did you sacrifice everything? Has it killed you yet?
Enlightenment, we both know it can’t be taken for granted. The purpose of life?
I hope so, we’d all be much better off. Massproduced apotheosis. Ironic: the salvation of humanity that is its oblivious murderer.
Renouncement from it all: peace for the selfish, and supplication for the anaemic willed.
Opportunity is not fortune, it is a privilege. A duty that the shackles of guilt and regret bind us to uphold.
Obligated philanthropy, altruistic discipline — the virtuous saviour.
Exemption from actualising the foresighted deliverance: greed, neglect, and heretical innocence prevailing.
Delight to Id and disappointment to Ghandi, Teresa, King; the ones that came before.
Wasting the enlightenment, the prospect. Cheating humankind. Forever branded the stubborn, egotistical coward. The one whom incurred apocalypse. Revelation.
Yourself, Adrian Murphy. Sacrifice your presence, forfeit your identity, abdicate your freedom.
Don’t let the world die please. I remember seeing you read that. Cynical salt; cast into reopened wounds, unearthing heartbreak, lacerating achievement.
The words bled anguish into your mind, corrupting reason.
A midlife crisis spawned by selfdoubt and a craving for a second chance.
Lamentation turned to deprecation.
The prosthetic curses looked back at you—laughing. Everlasting, sneering reminders of dead aspirations. You are haunted by potential.
Every day, bitter plastic and vitriolic metal stung your ambitions. Artificial epicaricacy.
The skyscraper: a forever mocking monument.
The perpetual pressure, executing realism. You could never meet your standards.
Did you sacrifice everything? The unwarranted blame and punishment that followed ensured permanent fixation on irreparable mistakes.
You never did live in the present.
The ignorance only departed at the eleventh hour. Don’t let the world die please.
So, Dad, I know that what you’re going through is difficult and I know I can’t even begin to understand it, but I just wanted you to remember that I loved her too, and that I’m always here if you need me.
Love you, Eric Murphy.