The Metaphysics of Closed Boxes

In the swells and bounces of different tunes, of a string of words, of different faces, there exist boxes half open and closed.

I envy mad people. I envy them because they can be free with their obsessions. I envy them because they can live in a world which they created for themselves. I envy them because they don’t have boxes to worry about.

On days when I am left to my solitude, I often wonder what it would be like to have no boxes. I wonder what it would be like to not care about opinions, restrictions, or protecting oneself. I wonder what it would be like to really be free.

On normal days, I play different cards by adopting different roles. Today I’m your uncaring, unaffected, bordering uncouth, girl going boy. Tomorrow, I’m your dainty, bangle wearing, self - respecting girl staying girl. Then there are days when I don’t talk at all. I’m a flashy red, torn apart box. I’m a baby blue, wrapped in crepe box. I’m a dark wood, clamped shut box. I guess that doesn’t make my days so normal. Maybe I’m mad too. No, I’m not that lucky.

There’s a certain exhilaration in playing different cards - in knowing yourself well enough but testing your limits nevertheless; in putting yourself to challenge after challenge; in making you your own worst enemy. The boxes start piling up, some with their contents pouring out, others not so much. There’s always room for more. That’s because you meet different people at different points in your life and you make memories with all of them. Memories, big and small. Memories, short and tall. Memories, in boxes placed in different stalls.

At some point though, the exhilaration wears out. That’s when you shut all the full boxes. Locks, keys and all. That’s when you put up your red signal poster. That’s when everybody leaves - everybody who matters that is. Boxes don’t have room for people who don’t matter, for memories that meant nothing, for experiences that didn’t give you an adrenalin rush. The poster doesn’t stay on very long though. You realize that, hey that’s life. People come and go. That’s just life. So you look at the people around you at the moment and you make more boxes. Smiley face boxes. One-night-stands-that-didn’t-really-work-out boxes. Dancing boxes. Drunk boxes. Intellectual boxes. Boxes and more boxes.

You can’t put freedom in a box though. That would just make it contained freedom. That’s the sort of freedom I have right now. It’s got four walls and a ceiling. I do have a key though. But that’s for all my boxes. It’s a really small key for so many of them. It’s a plain silver key too. Why dont they make red keys? I don’t really want the key. I wish I never had it. It only restricts my freedom further. I do wish I could give it to someone someday though. Wouldn’t that be a relief – loading off all your boxes onto someone else! I can’t imagine who’d want to take my boxes though. They’re too many to begin with and they’re either too dramatic or complicated. They don’t really need to be though. That’s just the way I am. I’m your wanna-be mad person. I’m your circle shaped box.

This is beginning to sound like the Pocket song – Pocket pocket, kiss kee pocket, pocket, pocket, meree pocket teree pocket, pocket pocket. But it isn’t just mindless ranting. No sir, there’s a deep seated message in all the 588 words I’ve written so far. What is it? I can’t tell you because that would mean opening up a box for you. And a very big one too. The King Box, as a matter of fact. He has a long white beard, a dangling peace sign across his neck and a joint popped in his mouth. The King Box, that is. It’s not impossible to get to him though. He smiles at you mostly. Inward, unnoticed smiles. If noticed, misinterpreted smiles. You’d think he’d know better than to be misunderstood, being the King Box and all. But don’t we all have the tendency to be taken for something we’re not even when we’re completely self-assured. Even when the test scores say you have a high self esteem. What do scores represent anyway? I don’t define who I am based on the scores I ever got in anything – and yes, I mean anything! But then again, I wasn’t great with numbers to begin with. That’s the primary reason why the boxes are in such abundance. Which has led me to write what I am. If you can somehow manage to understand this warped tirade about the insides of me head, then congratulations to you. At least you’ve come this far.

Sadly, this is as far as you’ll probably ever come. And that is plainly so because I, myself, have ventured this far out and opened a box for you. It’s a dummies box really, so don’t flatter yourself. By the time you’ve read this I hope to have at least struck a cord somewhere inside you to push you to action. Resolve and look into boxes of your own. Be a mad man for a day. Make a memory. Set your key free…

“Madness is the inability to communicate your ideas. Its as if you were in a foreign county able to see and understand everything that’s going on around you but incapable of explaining what you need to know or of being helped because you don’t understand the language they speak there.”

“We’ve all felt that.”

“And all of us, one way or another, are mad.”