My Box

January 25, 2009
By Zach Hosale, Mequon, WI

My Box

I was born with the world before me,
as if I were lying in an open meadow.
There are no barriers to hold me back.
I see all the colors, tones, and textures:
Lush greens, elegant blues, warm yellows
brilliant lights, mysterious darks,
rippling, diving, cascading through my surroundings.
I am free to explore to my hearts content,
to experience the wildlife, the land, the feelings.
Yet as I grow,
my world starts to develop walls.

First the walls rise to my knee,
they’re only made of brittle glass.
I could break them down,
but they’re much easier to step over.
Then the walls grow to my waist,
they’re only made of sturdy briars.
I could pry them apart,
but they’re much easier to hurdle over.
Then the walls ascend to my chest,
they’re only made of rough granite.
I could break them down brick by brick,
but they’re much easier to climb over.
Soon they reach my shoulder,
my chin,
my mouth,
my nose,
my eyes,
my forehead.

Finally these walls are jutting fifty feet above my head.
dull, cold, smooth: steel.
Peering over me like watch towers of a prison,
They trap me like a rat.
My one cheese,
the warm golden Sun,
radiating in front of a bright blue background above my penitentiary.
Eventually the blue fades to gray, then to a menacing black.
Even the Sun is afraid to challenge this overbearing shadow.
I am soon deprived of my sole solace.

Now the rain comes.
First a drip,
a trickle,
a spatter,
a splash.
Soon the drip mutates into a monster.
Careening down on to my face.
The cold water tastes salty like my tears.

If I could only get rid of this wetness and chill.

As I shield my eyes to look above into the black abyss,
the top starts to form.
the sides glide together scraping against the top of
my personal incarceration.
Lights out.
My cell fills with nothingness.
Forever and always.

I would sell my soul to feel again.

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