I want most of my thoughts to be little black boxes that can be lost in the ocean. My mind, a homing beacon, can locate each one if I please, but for now they’re gone. Left for the currents and critters to act on them without restraint. Maybe when one washes up on the shore, I’ll be ready.
But for now, there’s a few being tossed around in the Northern Atlantic. Several have been frozen in an Antarctic ice shelf. A couple might be hidden in the crevasses of Challenger Deep. There are a few that I can’t decide if they’re in the ocean of my mind or my heart.
I know of another level of concealment that is more violent. A large mix of memories are tossed in the ocean while the remainder are swirled around in a whirlpool. Sometimes the vortex momentarily spits one or two out. I do not know if it is because they are too powerful or if their time has come. Those in the ocean creep onto the shore and haunt, but those in the whirlpool attack like a vicious shark.
No matter how hard I try, the tide lulls them in and the boxes surface. Days come along that spew a black box or two onto the shore. The presence of those horrendous reminders revs up the whirlpool’s assault. Just like the lurking black boxes, vulnerability can’t be avoided. The water rejects some memories and a tempest rages until those boxes are sacrificed to the surface.
Vulnerability isn’t so much a question of when, but of what the water will bring back. The black boxes are always in the shadows, and you can’t see them until they’re resting at your toes.
We aren’t judged by what surfaces, but how we react to them. Avoiding the past festers within you. Opening the black box, accepting the data feedback, learning from it, and moving on is the only way to conquer the relentless sea of life.