The Box

It's not about feeling sorry for yourself, or being depressed. It's about seeing only inside the box, feeling the lines of the little square cutting into you, and piercing your life. You feel that nothing is ever good, because if nothing can reach the box that you're in, nothing is worthwhile. You can't escape the box.

But in a way, you don't want to. It comforts you, makes you feel surrounded by the rays of purity and light that make up the lines of the box. It makes you see everything inside of a crystal shadow, following you around in pure magic. But the box is bare.

There's nothing inside, just you and a thousand angry electrocutions trying to break into your body and through hell. You can only sit there and think about the connections, how you can see all the little blobs buzzing about in their cage. And you think that they are as trapped as you are. You find comfort in this, the sight of many little bees buzzing inside a line, watching you with pale interest. They look inside you, watching every little detail, searching for something to latch on to.

For a while, you find it comforting that an object takes interest in you. Then you begin to feel again so soon, and you retch at the feel of tiny little rats roaming all over your body. They invest in your brain, scratching out little pieces of information, and seizing the sight of a minute sunset. You stop then and reflect upon that sunset, and how when you moved to kiss it, it leapt away, screeching and groaning. But then you feel the rats again. They pull at your heart, tugging it, trying desperately to deter its feelings for you. And it leaves the box, and you see the tiny bees buzzing about it in the line, and as the heart pumps it's last tomato, and juices out once more. Left alone and bloodless, the rats finally leave you alone. They pour the most pure liquid over you, watching silently as you suffer into oblivion. Then you fall asleep. Then you fall asleep again.