My Box of Files

 

 

My Box of Files

 

 

            As I was sitting here alone, my mind drifted far. It wandered where no mind has ever dared to enter, my conscience. It has been so long since I visited this place and am quite surprise by the many changes I found. There are indeed a lot of transformations and each transformation was written in blood.

            In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the only wall covered with small index-card files. They were like the ones in libraries that lists titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in every direction, had very different headings. As I draw near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read “Boys I Have Liked”. I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize and recognize the names written on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were the written actions of my every moment, big or small, in a detail my memory couldn’t match.

            A sense of wander and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring its contents. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named “Friends” was next to one marked with “Friends I Have Betrayed”. The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. “Books I Have Read”, “Lies I Have Told”, “Comfort I Have Given”, “Things I Have Cried To”, “Jokes I Have Laughed At”, “Things I Have Written”, “Clothes I Have Wore”. Some were almost hilarious in their exactness. “Things I Have Yelled at My Brothers.” Others I couldn’t laugh at: “Things I Have Done in my Anger”, “Things I Have Muttered under My Breath at My Parents”. I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often they were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.

            I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I’d had the time in my fifteen years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed its truth, I can never deny. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

            When I pulled out the file marked “Songs I Have Listen To”, I realized the files grew to contain its contents. The packs were packed tightly and yet after two or three yards, I hadn’t found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented.

            When I came to a file marked “Appalling Thoughts”, I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost monster rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: “No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them! All of them!” In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn’t matter now. I had to empty and burn the cards. But as I took it on one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its array. Leaning my back against the wall, I began to look at the nonstop line of files before me and I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore “The Faith I Have Been Keeping for So long and the Events that Proved It”, “The Things I Have Contemplated Every Night Before I Sleep”, “The Prayers I Have Prayed To God”, “The Simple Little Things I Have Done to Help Others”, “The Only Gospels I Have Listened To”, and “The Things I Have Not Yet Completed”. The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on hand.

            And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that their hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room, of this place. I must lock it up and hide the key.

            But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Dante. Dante Alighieri. I almost doubt it but I knew it was him. No, please not him. Not here. I just had finished reading his Divina Comedia and I truly confessed I had been afraid of suchlike things he presented in his book. I am afraid. I am afraid he will see the files of cards in this secret room which I only had access and put me in his Inferno of blunders. I watched helplessly as he began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn’t bear to watch his response. And then his face changed into someone I recognized easily and almost instantly. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I am severely covered with shame and can hardly look at Him now. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every thing?

            Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn’t anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put his arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn’t say a word. He just cried with me.      

            Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file, one by one, began to sign His name over mine each card!

“No!” I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was, “No, no, no”, as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn’t be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of my Jesus covered mine. It was written in His blood.

            He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed his hand over my shoulder and said, “It is finished.” I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

            Now, as I sat here with my mind back with me now, I came to think: Maybe there is still time. Maybe I can still change. Maybe the baobabs have not yet occupied too much space in me. Maybe a new evolution is within reach. Maybe God is closer than we think.

Author's Note

This an essay I passed for our english class. The baobabs here are from the book, the little prince by Antoine de saint Exupery and is a psychoanalysis of vices.