I am so gray as of late. Not gray to my love but gray to me. I try to color myself for her but I feel like I'm slipping into a melancholy that will be harder and harder to get out of unless I start living.
I wanted to write about the box. I wanted to write an entire story about a box. It was about the box that we all sit in. It is the box of the ordinary. I wanted to write about the box of God that holds the dead soul. The soul wants to climb out and live and stretch and touch apple trees but it just keeps rearranging what's in the box and tapping the walls. It knows pointless corners of the box for which to talk to. The soul has no body for which to carry. The soul has no breath to even choke on. It has nothing to look forward to and so it sits. It sits there like a 5 year old at the bottom of a well for 3 days. It no longer cries to the sun. It accepts it's fate and just goes to sleep.
Because it makes me feel like I'm a man. I wish I would have sailed more seas and gone from this land here to that. I want a life of inspirational direction back again. And by 'again', I'm pretty sure I mean, once. I suffocate and can't move. I can't do anything. I can't write. I can't smoke. I can't drink. I can't glaze or love. All I can do is sit in a box and wait for something to entertain me. There are no more alpha waves coming out of me. There is nothing in my mind that challenges me to grow. I can't grow. I can't plant roots anywhere. I have no feet. I have no legs to stand on. I have no smile to give. I have a well that smells like a box and a box that smells like a coffin.
What shall I tell her when it comes time for me to die? What shall I tell anyone? I have no idea. I have no idea what God would know about me. He isn't aware of anyone anymore. He bowls on the weekends and roots for his favorite football team on Monday's. He wishes he was fishing with me. He wishes he was alive. He has my box.
Well I am a time bomb. I have no expectancy of when it will explode. I have no idea when I'll run like myself again. I died the second I thought it. I died the second I stopped trying. I died when I emblazoned those who I would never have known nor cared about and I found myself in their traps. I found myself wanting their stupid things. I found myself rolling around in pig slop with them. I am disgusted of who I was. I am disgusted as to where it has brought me. I hate so much but will not tell it to the sun. He only sleeps as I'm getting to the good parts. I crawl into my box and go to sleep.
I have a longtext buffer that has yet to expire. I have pretty pictures in my box to keep there. I have a door somewhere but i won't walk out of it because it's scary outside the box. The box houses all that I feel good about me. It houses no stares or suggestions from anyone else. "They are all stupid anyway", that's what I tell myself in the box. "Fucking morons!" My box says I'm right. My box tells me it loves me and that I'm not wasting away. My box let's me know that'll all be ok as long as we can get to Friday and we can pay the rent. "Pay the rent and get to Friday son.""Pay the rent and get to Friday." "Come see me on Monday and I'll hold you. I'll tell that you are special and we can be happy. I'll keep you warm. Well I'll keep you warm enough."
I love her. She helps me. If I think about her she helps me. She is becomming my strength. She is now what I turn to when I have a bad day. I haven't ever done that. She makes it easy to do. She stays out of the box because she's smart.
I get lost. I become this dark gray peace of pain. I just loathe and lie and joke and jest and judge and cower and throw up my hands to the cards that God has dealt me. Me and my box are going to get into it soon. I have a feeling I'm going to win.