Imagine an object that could hold all meaning to one person. An object capable of warding off interlopers from the labyrinth of someone's imagination; the cornucopia of our darkest secrets. Yet could also open this realm of make-believe and hither an age of fantasy, creativity and play.
I know now that my object is not of the above anymore. Now it stands, once tall and brave, as a small stump, cracking to reveal reality. One that is dull and harsh. Its doors no longer retain that smooth excitable motion. Its insides act no more as a treasure trove chockablock with youth. It is but a split, wooden stump.
It has all changed now. What was now big is now small, average at the least. I'm older now; that old toy box hides no mysteries. It's job of protecting identity, keeping out truths of the real and offering safety when needed is done. That was its meaning. The meaning of an old toy box.