I sit amongst the remnants of a box, my prison and my own personal war. A container ripped apart with a knife, an axe and finally my bare hands. It was a box of my own making and the work of others, Fashioned in the beginning to keep me safe, to fit myself into the expectations of others. In the end, it became my own personal Shawshank, a way to avoid the slow torture of change. Another device used to deny who I really was to those I thought cared. But it came down to a choice; change and become something more, become my true self. Or let my true self die and live in the hell of being everything to everyone and nothing to no one. I chose change and the agonizing process of extracting myself from my self-made prison.
Now I sit with the remnants of the old. A wooden boxed, scrawled with the words of my poetry, some of it good, some of it just alright. There are the lyrics of songs that have made up my life soundtrack and the description that goes along with four little letters. All the things that I have let define me. Yet, the box still tries to repair itself around me. In new ways, in new shapes, but still the same box. So the fight goes on.
I look around me at those I love and those I just know. Some are still stuck in their self-made coffins. Beautiful coffins, works of art really, designed with art and music and philosophy, but coffins still the same. Some are trying to fight their way out, to change to grow. I look on, wanting to help them defeat the terrorists who want to kill their hearts, but knowing I must put down my axe for this is a battle they must fight on their own. All I can do is shout encouragements and psalms telling them the fight is worth it. Besides, my own demons are not gone, but grouping themselves for the next assault. So I sit and take a rest because the fight for becoming myself is never-ending at least in this life. And the battle goes on.
