Drafts

Box

A box can mean many things. Usually, it means boredom. I am no exception. The same four walls, day in, day out. Nothing else. No curves, no harsh angles. Just these four uninteresting rectangles. Who even likes boxes? No one, that's who. You use boxes because you have to, not because you want to. You don't put on jewelry because you have to, but because you want to feel good about yourself.

A box never feels good about itself. How do I know? Well, I can't tell you that just yet. But I can tell you that boxes think very low of themselves. At least, the boxes that I know. Well, I don't know them, per se, but I see them. I can tell what they're feeling. But you can't. Only I can. I know how much the box hates the paint bottle, or the canvas, or the paint brush.

It hates because either those things look interesting from the beginning, or someone creates something and makes it look interesting. Either way, the box hates that which can create. Because it itself cannot do so, no matter that it has the sentience of one who was born to create.

So it must forever suffer as a box that cannot create.

How do I know?

Well, because I am a box.