Things mean different things to different people. A person can have a favorite rock, and then when you look at that rock, you see it is nothing special and you kick it. This will, of course, hurt the person that has chosen that rock as their favorite rock.

In this case, though, I will use a jar with sand in it. The jar is easily opened, easily emptied and can easily be refilled with the same or other sand.

I chose to empty this jar a short while ago. I thought nothing of it, as I was attempting to move on, I was trying to expunge memories that could be seen through its clear sides. The layers upon layers that had been poured in over time. Each layer represented special moments shared with a miraculous person.

Why would I try to forget these special moments? Because they tormented me. When I emptied the jar, I believed this person disliked me and could no longer care about me. I later found this to be wrong.

My jar was now empty and ugly. Being hasty, I began filling it with dirt and mud. It wasn’t the best filler, and I can see that now. At the time, though, I just didn’t want it to be empty. Unfortunately, the dirt and mud had all kinds of debris, leaves, insects…You get the picture.

Well, this miraculous person was able to allow me some time in their life. They showed me their jar, it was locked up tight, with all the layers of sand still inside. This made me ashamed of my jar, which I had so easily filled with other crap. Upon asking to see my jar, I was hesitant. This scared the miraculous person. I eventually gave in, she saw it, and she was devastated.

These jars, though meaning little to me, meant the world to her. My jar, now tainted, is no longer welcome back to see the miraculous person any more.

I wish my jar meant more to me, I wish I could have held on to the beautiful sand that was inside. I’ll never get it back, nor be able to see the matching one that the miraculous person holds. Its beauty is lost. Its seal is worn. It may never be beautiful again.

I’m sorry Mariah for allowing shit in my jar.

One Response to “Meanings”

  1. Mariah says:

    You are right, my jar remained beautiful and it remained closed. I cherished every layer and often made it known that I was still in love with all the sand inside. Every grain meant something to me and was indispensable. I proudly placed my jar on display and never once tried to hide it from others. Those same people made numerous attempts to empty it, but I refused. I refused to empty this jar until I knew everything inside, was pointless to hold on to.

    When I saw your jar, I noticed it looked a lot different than mine. I couldn’t understand how you let it get so filthy. I could see that you were making attempts to clean it out, though. You were trying to wipe away even the smallest particles that attempted to stay.

    I noticed that it began to glisten. I praised you for attempting to clean it out, and for wanting to start over.

    Unfortunately, there was something there I couldn’t see. Something you didn’t allow me to see. You wished you could wipe it away, but it was impossible. No matter what you tried to do, it remained.

    I soon discovered what lay inside your jar. I’ve never seen something so repulsive in all my life. Scum of all scum. These layers of impurities were so pungent that even when you attempted to close the jar, the smell seeped through. I gasped, begging for breath, but there was nothing you could do. This bottom feeding scum embedded itself where only our memories were supposed to lay. Little did I know, invisible to my eye, this scum laid there long before I did.

    I will always love you and wish that your jar weren’t so tainted.

    I will always remember our jars and every memory we captured inside. Unfortunate for me, I had to shatter mine. There was no hope at ever refilling that same jar with the beautiful memories it once held.

    I truly wish there were some way for me to clean out the scum buried deep inside your jar, but I can’t. The only cleaner designed for this particular type of “shit” has been recalled.

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