Box

He said I was alone. An alone person.
(Pause for emotional effect)

No, not  the the typical romantic type. The one that your broody teenager would conjure up from all the wishy washy fishy – fashy crappy movies he’s been watching. This one is not sitting on mouldy brown stairs, feet dangling as she looks out to the sea sort of lonely.

No, nothing that fancy.
He refers to me as the plain, lonely kind, not one without friends or family
but one who is surrounded by boxes.
Prudent boxes and cynical boxes, boxes that spell alone.
A L O N E.
A lonely box he said I was. No colour he gave to these boxes, no ribbons or frills, not even the contents were spelled out. He called them boxes. And Boxes are cuboids,  made of cardboard and when they get wet, they no more remain boxes. That is the kind of box, he was referring to.

You may ask what kind of mad person uses words such as fishy-fashy (yes, I eat fish, I ate some today) and describes boxes. It is so done so that your conditioned mind does not think of a glass box or  little boxes made of ticky tackies.
These are very specific boxes.

These are boxes in my head.

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