My pieces swim around mirthlessly. I say I am homeless, but really, my life is in a box, my home is in a box. My home is a box.
I hear of those in prison cells. Every person is left inside a box. Each of us makes his own box. Mine is cardboard, yours is brick, hers is padding, his is cinderblock, and hers is a cow hide tent that loves to act like a box. All of us are restrained by our boxes. Our boxes keep us from doing what our spirit wants us to do.
One time I was in a room with many people and I felt my box literally disappear. I thought I might be leaving earth, perhaps dying. But I didn’t die. My box came back. My box is consistent and my box always comes back.
Today, I will look for a special blanket. I’m looking for forest green, or perhaps army green. When I find it, I’ll know it. It will soften the box so much, the box will fly away as dust.
I need a home, something like a pine box with a mattress. I see the box every day, but I never see a home. With a home, I might recover.
If I walk alone, down the haunting, overbearing hallway, with my hands clasped and my head bowed, will all of the shit fly above my head and swirl around like tornadoes in the high-peaking, diamonded ceilings with little receptacles? The hallway is my home where my gods speak loudly and tell me to be me. It is a special box. They tell me there is value to living. I need no bed in my hallway. I need no sleep. The portals in my hallway have no windows, so I breathe in the good of the world and as I exhale, I share it with the gods who help me live today. I see beautiful flowers in thousands of colors and gentle pathways when I look out of a portal, and when I smile, I can feel my gods smile. They do – They smile. I float about my box and I wait for someone who might need my help.
It’s Inspiration Monday IX at BeKindRewrite. Lots of great work over there and I love the prompts.