Lost In Transit.

There's this box. This box is special. You put your problems inside. There they will stay, locked up. There they will stay hidden. No one knows, and no one can speak of what's in the box. It's magic, ya know. Too bad it's fake.

Magic boxes are fake, problems are real.

I can spend all my time trying to wish it away, but that doesn't work. Life is kind of like a car crash, you're just driving along, perfectly fine, life's good. Then all of a sudden, CRASH! Flash, flash, car crash. It's there and it's real, it's a problem, and you're in a panic. Are you ok? Is everyone else okay? Eventually you calm down, you move on, you make the right decision and drive along waiting for the next icy patch on the road. Only some people crash harder than others, some people only experience fender benders. For some, there's blood. For others, death. Some are bruised. Some are broken. Some are perfectly fine. In fact, most are perfectly fine.
Then there are those of us, we are lost. And it's hard to tell if the real us will ever be found under all those remains. They all want to be found, to be saved, to be made real again. But then there are people like me, the sick kind, the ones who don't want to be found. The ones who are perfectly happy hiding underneath all the debris, because it's safer than trying to move. Why try to move? I could be hurt even worse by moving me. Or I could make it out alive, I could be real, for once in my life, I can move on. And I don't need to hide under the metal junk of a death that shouldn't define me anyway.

In loving memory.