Day 87

I had a music box in my youth. Whenever opened, it would play a beautiful song.
A singular sort of song. It could tickle the corners of my mouth into a smile and squeeze my sides till a sigh would rush out.
No specific memory comes to mind. Just a general wash of comforts. Even thinking of it now conjures images of sunlight refracted through colored glass, while an unending spring flourishes in the background. Smells of baking.
On a particular day I was feeling particularly inquisitive, and so I wished to explore the mysteries of the music making box.
I opened up the casing, with as much tenderness and care as my tiny hands could offer, and inside I found gears and bands and other moving parts I couldn't know the names for.
Disappointed by my findings, I set to work restoring the thing.
I put it back as best i could, but the song never played quite the same.
I'm sure I replaced some part or part incorrectly; this was likely why the melody was soured.
I put it away. And it was forgotten.
Many might say I should never have opened up the box. It would be best to be caught in awe.
I can't argue with this viewpoint.
I, however, lament not becoming a better tinkerer or a musician, or composer.
I don't lament looking past a facade. I do regret not going further.
...
Did I do it?
Did I metaphor?