Scraps From a Former Life

The door rolled up with a terrible noise. I was standing in this depersonalized space waiting for it to open - into the past and personal. And it opened up like a wound in the cold alien body of a modern monster. The cold symmetry of the hallways and doors was broken abruptly by the sight: a cluster of guts revealed through a small surgical cut.
Suddenly I was standing in front of a wall and tower of improperly aligned, randomly piled up boxes and bags. The past, through its partially labelled physical compartments, grinned at me. For a split second I felt panic coming up like a foreteller of depression, but then, right away, the immune system kicked in and I started to laugh.
This was it: not the guts of an irrational monster, but scraps from a former life, things that I, and we, accumulated over years; things of little material value, mostly, but sticky with emotional meaning. They've all known very good, good and bad times. And for the first time I was happy that they could not talk. I mean, they do, but it's a whisper only I can hear and understand, rather than loud and clear for everybody to hear.
They are scraps, too many of them, that invariably and inevitably identify myself - if only through the reasons behind getting them in first place and keeping them after. It is not really an identity to my liking. But when was it ?

It was time to open this 3-D scrapbook and look at the pieces. Today I wanted to get the gear needed for the winter. I had to go back to the mountains and free myself from polluting thoughts. I had to test my charging system again, charge my batteries and feed my soul with the silence of snow and heights. Then, I could move on to the next page of the scrapbook.