Fit to be Boxed

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Nothing will put you together again, the whole of your parts will never be located; and no one will ever know you as you truly are

if you present your story with a veil
protect yourself with little lies that feel safe
deliver interpretations rather than the truth

But you’ll get disgusted with their efforts
And annoyed by their failures
You’ll tell yourself they weren’t the worthy one.

Are we all, all of us “grown-ups”, self-bound in boxes imposed by life and expectations? Or just some lucky few; those of us too selfish, too self-involved, too self-absorbed the only ones? Are we all passing caged animals on the streets as we walk past one another? Or only those of us overly reflective lost little adults who can’t let go of our childhood dreams of greatness.

I can’t pin this down and it tortures me.

Is everyone passed in their daily doings repressing their dark desires, their unsaid selves, their unfiltered versions? Or is it only those that can’t reconcile that they’re a cog in a great wheel? This aching inquiry isn’t new, but as I go through every motion, massage every relationship, seek a little light, I can’t help but assume we’re all hiding in a dark little corner. Some us, simply, coping with the cover better than others, I expect.

Life isn’t revealing anything other than we’re all vastly mediocre and desperately sorrowful that we hadn’t more drive to grasp our true desires. Me included. And questioning why I’ve held on so long, so fiercely to my unique self.  It’s a uniqueness we all carry. I suppose the question is, when do we surrender it and completely give in?

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