Harsh Reality

Imagine an object that could hold everything meaningful to one person. An object capable of warding off intruders eager to venture into one’s own imagination and steal the secrets to our deepest, darkest memories. An object so tall and brave standing firmly into place, reluctant to let its arms open wide revealing what I once thought was a magical world. Such object is perhaps imaginary; perhaps not what we would initially associate with a man-made construction. But I know it to be true.

I know that my object holds cracks filled with anger, wedged beneath childhood games and pretentious adventures. What was once an elegant, vintage brown coating has now split in parts to reveal the dull reality of its wooden raw material. The sliding doors no longer retain the smooth, clean drifting motion that I once felt whenever I hid inside. Now it feels jagged and coarse as if it were blocking itself from the outside world.

I once needed my parents’ assistance in reaching the highest draws, the very same place they would hide my most precious possessions whenever my behaviour was ‘unacceptable’, as if to prove a point. As if to remind me I wasn’t big enough. It’s all changed now; I can reach those high places, I can even fit my hand in the darkest corners. There is nothing to hide.
To protect someone’s identity. To keep out the harsh truths of the real world and offer safety whenever one needs it. To me that was its sole purpose. That was what my wardrobe was for.