The Jar

It is standing right here, by me. I see it, and it calls me to guess: Am I real or am I a dream? 

I am a little tempted to open it up and figure it out, but right now, I am looking at it numbly, "I don't care what you are". It knocked again from the inside, shouting: You're not done with me yet, you can't possibly dispose me this early. 

"Early? Keep your lid on, I think it's enough." And so, the memories in the jar looked at me, and realized: Maybe she's over me. I exist, but not to be dealt with anymore. She knows I'm here, but she knows I cannot do anything to her anymore, unless, of course, she loses it again and uncovered me. Okay, then.