If I had a crayon, I’d draw a box.
That box is my life; it is me. It is square, predictable, proportional, with boundaries, a square. The inside and the outside seem well-defined, but in all honesty, as I am inside, the outside isn’t all that clear. It should be clear because it is my job to think outside of it. But it is not.
There are times I believe that I am sitting on top of the box or at least pacing back and forth upon it trying to determine what this box really is, where this box truly resides, why it is here in the first place, and what would it mean if the box disappeared, but those are all fantasies. I am the box and nothing more. I am inside, an infinite inside pegged within an infinitely finite casing, but I know it is a casing, a crushing casing. There is no understanding it, nor the entirety of the square, as there appears to be neither beginning nor end to its existence, though I know they both exist.
I want to scream at the box because it is so predictable. I don’t want to die predictably, I don’t want to live predictably, but I fear that that is my lot. I don’t want to be predictable, but that is predictable given my personality, and the more unpredictable I aim to become, the more predictable I get. I am in my little box. I don’t like my little box.
I want to eat the crayon and destroy my box, but then I would be no more.
I love my little box.