All is boxes here. To step from one is to step into another. I hear there is beauty in these boxes, and indeed I have seen some of it for myself. Does that ever make them more than gilded prisons, though? I may refer to them as prisons, cells, perhaps dungeons--but never cages. To consider them cages is to suggest that air from an outside world of freedom can slip between the bars, but that is not so. Of course, if freedom is not something to aspire to, perhaps this is no trouble at all. How can I know when I know not what freedom is and see it only as my box allows? Or is what I seek truth? Reality? Thinking about it . . . those ar
The world never stops changing, but it is always the same. It has ever been a tragedy that can be nothing but ugly until the next breath, when it can be nothing but beautiful. Sometimes I take in the cool air and find existence a blessing; sometimes I sit stoic as my insides twist, my mind being so brash as to wonder why people are cursed with life. A longing gnaws at me--a lament; that I could let the blood of the wounded run across my skin as I hold them in my arms, striving to bind shut their gashes. Too often I am frustrated by my inability to help those whose spirits glance askance at passerby, questioni