my box of memories

and if i am not beautiful, what then?
and if i am not clever or lovely or innocent or talented, what am i? what do i do with my life? do i sit on the sidelines with my chin on my knees and watch the other people, the ones who were lucky enough to be clever and lovely and innocent and talented? am i doomed to always observe and never take part?
in an opera i would be the precious little ingenue, with swooping soprano and a virginial white dress, though i would be typecast because i am young and i am meant to be the innocent. what is meant to be, though, is not always the case.
when i was impressionable and young i listened to opera because it made me feel cultured; i listened to opera and musical theatre (and i knew the whole of the phantom of the opera score backwards and i wanted to be christine so badly) and i looked down on people who spent their life in loose jeans and with gold teeth as they listened to a man talk about women in deragatory ways and about all of the things they had acquired in their life.
but i could fill hundreds of posts with who i used to be!
in my house, in my room, beneath my bed there is a box. it is covered in some kind of faux denim with a pattern of beads and sequins and embroidery upon its top. It is filled with relics from my own life; pages and pages of writing of me explaining what everything is. there are streamers and stones and a letter i received once from oman and part invitations and keyrings with my name on.
i never add to it.
perhaps, i should start again.