Stacked Boxes

Prologue

Boxes. Piles and piles of boxes. The ones that clunk when they hit the ground so you can hear all the stuff inside jiggle around as they settle. The kind that give you cuts as you brush up against the side, telling you that you've worked too much.

These types of boxes were the type that piled my room's floor this morning. Each of the boxes told a story of its own kind.

I looked over at a box, stuffed into the corner, it looked scared. As if fear beamed off of its scent-less cardboard and into the very room I stood. It made the room bleak and darker somehow even though the bare walls, which had never been painted, were white.

I turned my body away from that box and turned it towards another. This one was between me and the doorway out. It seemed happy in a way. The corners sticking out so boldly, forming it into its cube shape.

I had no idea why the box was happy or why it made me crack a smile, but I guess we do things that we don't really have a reason for.