I think about the box every day. It gives me unimaginable guilt every day. Guilt for owning it for twenty years, for trying unsuccessfully to give it purpose, for giving it purpose but not fulfilling the purpose, for trying to hate it, for trying to like it. I think about it at work, while driving, washing dishes, replenishing my car’s fluids, showering, and walking my dog. I think about it while running, serving my opponent, quelling boredom, trying to get it all done. I dream about it, wake up thinking about it, but mostly I try to avoid it, and mostly I try to make it work. All the while, it nags from behind a closet door, nesting within boxes, begging to finally be what it is supposed to be. I mean seriously, how long is it going to take? Its concern is valid.
This thing that should be, but isn’t yet. The thing that could be, but isn’t. Arguably, the box is my biggest secret. No one knows about it, except for you, but all names and places are changed to protect the guilty. I would die if anyone knew that I were the one who failed miserably at so many half-hearted attempts at nothing.
So there it rests, in that naggy, blamey part of my brain, behind a closet door, nesting within other boxes, filled with something I’m too afraid to take out.