The Box

And I sit here staring at the empty screen and the words simply don’t come out. They litter the floor of this box that surrounds me head to toe side to side bottom to top. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good box that has served me well. This box keeps me smart trustworthy successful compassionate and grateful for the straight lines and detour free paths that allowed me to reach here. And yet, a good box is still a box, and the words that have fallen into these corners and crevices were the words that could never be said for being too angry too loud too imperfect simply too much. They were words that would have meant busting out of cardboard walls and taking up too much space in a world that would prefer a me that was smaller and more contained. But now I can’t breathe and the echoes of these screams seep through the seams, and it is me, all of me, learning that any box is too small, any label is too narrow, because we are all so much more than even we know. Soon I will know the sound of my own voice on the wind, and soon I will stretch my arms and legs and heart and know, that finally, I am free.