***Forcing myself to write through the writer’s block…
My mind became a storage unit similar to the ones the POD companies dropped off, in parking lots of apartments and giant yards of suburban homes. Neatly, the cardboard boxes aligned the walls and started to fill out the middle of the confinement. Boxes soiled with the thoughts of last year wouldn’t close all the way. Limp cardboard flaps would not contort in ways similar to origami. Some days, I sat on the stone cold floor and folded myself in again. The air siphoning under the space between the door had numbed me then.
This is for my own well being.
Childhood flashbacks of building blocks laughed at my acquired cubes. Boxes tucked away from the world surrounded me. As I laid my head against one, my outstretched legs rubbed against other boxes. The smell of old books permeated the air, entire renditions of my life and familial history brought little or no comfort. With my past words, the tunnels I crawled through slowly closed – as does the light exposure in 35 mm cameras. Seventies style wooden furniture, bulky and clunky as platform shoes, filled each corner. On top of each piece, scattered papers of my identity were across them. Some folders were completed and stacked as tall as the ceiling in other areas.
With my knees hugged to my chest, I wondered if I would be found. Would I find myself in the wreckage? Does the recluse befriend it’s other side of being a participant?