Stale, cardboard tainted air, scratches my throat. The smell of plastic and packaging burns into everything. Every house a new burden, every box a new experience.
Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t all bad. From a young age you have to learn to adapt and to not get too attached to any one place, or person. Every place provides a new start. You get accustomed to starting over. New stories and new people fill the void of absence. You don’t know about others’ stories of embarrassment, and they don’t know about yours. You are a mystery, waiting to be discovered, a box, waiting to be opened.
As a child, unpacking is almost like christmas. The boxes are like presents. The crisp, hollow rooms patiently anticipating the joy of clutter. Sometimes i wonder if the constant moving is the cause of my enjoyment of things. Although trivial, and no real purpose other than to look pretty, things prevent the process of moving, even if just by prolonging the experience. To prolong a move, it means holding on to the memories, the friends, the life it once contained, which is now sucked into the fragrant smell of beat up boxes.
My story is a symphony of cardboard and new starts. A melody of finding myself, and breaking away from norms of society. I am a composer of my own liberal thoughts and concerns. I am living my life in boxes.