Attic of soul

From the attic of my being, I withdrew my locked chest. Stored therein emotions and observations that I could not savor at the time of their occurrences lest I be distracted further. Articles of distress, items that caused me grief, these and many more I found, locked away. Now, liken to the perusing the life of a deceased projected upon the screen from reels upon reels of faded memories, I saw myself in different lights. I recall incidences that I had buried, memories that I have casted aside until a later date. Was I immature then, or was it just more willing to feel than I am now? There I am, always a younger turbulent version of me, suppressing feelings that were raging and ravaging within me. Seeking control as I have always done, I had locked these memories away until I deem it proper to unleash them in the privacy of my soul's basement. There they work themselves, tumbling, toiling, professing, expressing until they are spent. Then, and only then, when only facts remain, and emotions detached do I pick them up, embrace their truth and shelf them in the library of my experiences for future references' sake.