old shoebox, you can't help me now

i feel like there is no clear past to fall back on. everything i have ever done is framed on yellowed newspapers, burned onto hundreds of scattered blank CDs with fading titles and even stored on external hard drives that are now corrupted and only retrievable with obscene amounts of money. i'm so frustrated. i'm not even sure what i'm looking for anymore. maybe some magical piece of work that is going to remind me what i should have been doing all along. instead, everything i come across is strangely forbidding. no, you don't want to play that one. you don't want to read that note. you don't want to be disappointed, do you? 

now i understand why people burn all their most intimate belongings.