i'm carrying around a mystery box, in which i keep all my most prized possessions.
its contents, are, as you should assume, a mystery, but that doesn't stop me from making you guess.
i don't look inside all that often; it takes a lot of effort to pry it open and handle the contents with the care usually afforded to radioactive waste.
behind each object is a secret, and the objects themselves are mysteries, so it's an impossible game to win, or even play.
for as much as i think i understand the rules - and most of that understanding is based on coming to terms with never truly understanding - there really are no rules. nevertheless, this doesn't stop people from guessing: few have ever won, most have lost, and the largest number have never really played.
the objects in question are less matter and more clouds of possibility. Heisenberg should have been a psychologist. like genes, they are tendencies and get activated by the environment.
mostly though, they stay locked away in the box.
and on the outside of the box, i draw pictures that are fun and friendly, inviting and endearing, comforting and comfortable. it's an image, a surface. Artifice.
the images are taking on a life of their own; the box stays closed for longer and longer. the shadows are growing longer, while the sun continues to set.
but the shadows aren't real, just an eclipse of the light.
at the heart, it's definition and the act of defining that make me feel claustrophobic, like I am entirely trapped within the box. but i mostly experience life as a set of possibilities, perpetually expanding and evolving.
this makes some things difficult and others more amazing. at the very least, it puts me at odds with the concrete, American world of business which requires a firmer footing.
maybe it's my own fault. i forget too easily and often about what's really important and find myself getting caught up in the surface details. which is unlike anyone else i know.
but then i don't have structures in place - people, places, or moments - to call me to attention. so i drift.
define me, if you must, as someone who eschews definition. but know that i will give into definition when it suits my fancy. and my fancy is fancy.
for, for as much as definition makes me uncomfortable, it is a nice counterbalance to a world of greying confusion which can overwhelm us with complexity, confusing us with its sublime nuance.
