i have sorted nearly all aspects of my life into boxes. these boxes have very clear, easily definable labels, and until now nearly everything i know falls within the scope of at least one label. family, friends, work, home, relationships… all things have their place in my little universe.

occasionally, i am presented with something that does not fit into one of these predefined spaces. rather than simply enjoy the thing for what it is like a sensible creature, it is my instinct to mutilate it. i cut it down until it fits into a box, even if that means trimming away the essence of what made the thing enjoyable to begin with.

the boxes are a myth. i know this. the boxes exist because i called them into existence, because some part of my brain tells me that obsessively cataloging and categorizing everything in my life with make it more manageable. that may be true, but it leaves very little room for life to actually happen. twenty eight years of living has (slowly, almost painfully) taught me that life is not organized. it is messy and complicated, and most of what makes it worth living cannot be tagged an sorted and stored in a box.

i created the boxes. i can un-create them if i choose to. i just have to choose to.


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