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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
This thing, this olive green, army style; deteriorating soul less polyester backpack I now realize I’m emotionally attached too

Submitted: May 24, 2013

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Submitted: May 24, 2013

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When packing for trips I make sure to always have drugs, money to buy drugs if I don't have any. A toothbrush and soap to wash my sins and clothes to repeat my sins in a fashionable manner. I never forget a thing despite of my abused memory and everything manages to fit perfectly into my favorite backpack.The things I remember I should leave for which  I also pack my anxieties, all three of them (and counting), the demons I've had since childhood into this almost 4 year old backpack. This thing, this olive green, army style; deteriorating soul less polyester backpack I now realize I’m emotionally attached too. Mainly because everywhere I've been, I've been alone and the only thing that knew me was this backpack. Sometimes I think this backpack has carried me in times my heart was too heavy.
 
It’s nothing fancy, really. Sharpie covers the time less dirt stains while the blood stains from my scooter accident stand out. I believe it’s been 3 years since my first accident. Although on this night what I had packed was an 8th of chronic. One of the zippers holds an elephant charm broken in half I got in Bangkok, Thailand. That was almost 2 years ago now. Although these two events are irrelevant, they both have one ridiculously important similarity. I believe a person has several life events that result in the epiphany of being alone. These are my top two solitary life events.
 
I was probably re-playing your face with a soundtrack in the background on that red light. I was in no hurry to get home because no one will be waiting for me there. The light turned green with two cars in front of me then I accelerated normally and let my scooter, Lizzie drive me home. Seconds later, my body lay on the road that had given me terrible road rash on both my knees that night. Strangers asked if I was OK I kept nodding my head, my vocal cords were in mute while I screamed, "HELP ME!" inside. I bled depression that night and lost myself in physical pain I never want to feel again. This event was clearly an accident. I didn't choose to drive into the car’s tail light after they wrongfully braked without their turn lights. Yet I couldn't help but blame myself for such unfortunate experience.
 
Months later sitting in that foreign airport with no sleep I watched families depart and arrive from all over the world. Couples embarking their intertwined souls into a week or so of vacation celebrating the love I wish I had. The love I lost. I sat drinking my mistakes a little after noon letting my eyes document this horror for me. Hours of layover would have been entertaining with someone, anyone there to understand, to listen. Instead I had my baggage of things that make me a human and all I wanted to do was burn my passport and run.
I held my personal items close as if they were going to leave me they had no choice but to wait with me too.
 
Not only am I attached to this backpack, I’m attached to these memories that come with it. The dark vivid memories I've lived through are nothing but a string of polyester hanging out and I’m too sensitive to pull and throw away. Things of this nature are not who I am and not what I want to carry. I’m beginning to think I need to let it go. I need to burn this backpack along with the memories. My only problem is how do I fit these emotional life events into an aging human less bag? 


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