Tiny Boxes

There is a tiny box that I have always managed to fit myself into.

Sometimes it is tight and unyielding and other times, it lets me breathe.

It tells me to live small, and when I do, I’m safe.

For the most part.

It allows for a comfortable security that yes, is an illusion, but also brings me hope that one day, finally, I will find peace.

And then there are the other days when the walls chafe my skin and I feel buried by my own insecurities and wants.

What is freedom when you’re trapped?

By your own ideas about what it will look like if a woman like you lives too big, too free, too everything.

Sometimes it feels like nothing is okay.

And other times it feels like nothing is wrong.

This shuffle between comfort, warmth, boredom and life, real life, that is, living as if on the precipice of death.

Which we always already are.

We’re really cowards.

All of us.

Holding onto some pathetic hope of security when it doesn’t exist.

Not for any one.


We are free-floating, fragile beings in a space-time continuum that maybe no one really understands.

But we pretend to.

We think our opinions and our self-righteousness and our ability to say who is wrong and who is right add up to some kind of measure of who we are as people.

As humans.

But it’s all a lot of fluff in the scheme of the universe.

Being brave does matter amidst the meaninglessness perhaps.

Being brave enough to know that opinions are not enough and that our days must be full of service or something – really anything – to be meaningful.

We can’t live only for ourselves if we expect to move beyond monotony and despair.

Sometimes it hurts to be normal and regular and everyday.
Sometimes we want to be more.

We want to feel as those we are contributing, living, making a difference.

Being who we truly are before it is too late.

Cause sometimes, it feels too late.

Too long ago.

A part of us too long lost.

But it isn’t

We can be brave.

We can move around in the walls that bind us.

We may never be free.

But we can be loud and real and messily imperfect.

We can choose ourselves.

Come what may.