The Box Delusion

I tried to fit into Pandora’s Box, labelled with a brand, and some stickers. Stacked in lines of rows and aisles.

Packaged to protect the heart and supress the mind, confined to the archives of a time and times past-tense.

Beneath the corrugated flaps, the bubble wrap and the scotch tape there was fragile, colourless glass, or so I’d been told;

As I perched on my shelf I was impelled, impaled by the protrusions of the splinters’ taunts and doubts; and my contents felt cold, hard and shallow.

I no longer wished to conform to the length, width and height of my container.

But I was hollow in my thoughts, and filled myself with pretty trinkets, gems and shiny things that rust and break. They were put on sale; idolised, placed on pedal stools and praised in high places.

And I was torn apart from the inside-out, turned-out, naked and gutted for my possessions.

My fate was unfolding.

To be buried in a scrap yard grave, recycled into pulp.

Or fitted and stitched together like some carboard cut-out.

A freak of glue and paper, and of nature.

In my next reincarnation.

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