About a Box

the box is blue, jaded azure blue, with rust marks left behind,
graciously by the 52 seasons that it has seen.
the box is my home, the best one i have ever had and probably ever will.
i sleep in the box after dark, whose roof during the day is a busy table.
a riot of givings and takings that is the the business of the world.
i am the receptionist in this riot, to a few hundred passers by.
the blue box is the center of my world, a perfect semblance of 6 walls.
if i were a lizard, i would change the ceiling everyday.
and sleep on the opposite side, and move everything else around,
so that it looked the same,
from the abritarily chosen vantage position of wherever i lied.
a sleep experiment in varying gravity.
lizards are lucky. i cant afford vantage points.
lit by a bulb, with electricity borrowed from
the high voltage power lines passing overhead, this box is also my school.
i think so, from what i know about schools.
its a place where you learn things about the world, things about things.
where you learn how to live better, and about right and wrong,
about who we are and where we come from.
and learn to dream about where we could be going.
i learnt everything i know about the world i live in, right here.
and i know where i am going.
every night for thirteen years, after the day was done,
and the box was rubbed clean of all the day's excrements,
i have looked at the sky, and in brighter nights, the moon,
reflected in the glazed surface of washed dishes. and i have wondered.
i have heard from the elders, that the sky is not a thing,
it is just a blanket of air, a huge fluffy blanket.
that thought is a nice one, before going to sleep.
it reminds me of back home when i was a kid,
the feeling of sharing the blanket with my brothers and sister.
it makes me feel small, all over again.
after i left home, for years i could feel nothing but rage,
but now there are so many colours to it,
that i don't know the difference. i feel i don't feel anything anymore.
sometimes i am so automatic, like the movements of the sun,
the movement of my hands, serving one body after another,
leaves an emptiness in my heart that is pure bliss,
almost happiness.
if only i had something to compare it with, i could be sure.
i am like the box, boxes feel nothing. they just stay, inches above the ground.
they are home to things that you can't see from the outside.
now i hear the sharp ugly sound again, someone outside is kicking the box.
in the biting early morning cold, it is the watchman trying to wake me up.
i'll pretend i am sleeping, for just a little longer.
no one can see what's inside, from outside.
the walls are warmer. the blue is black.
shivering, i hug my folded blanket tighter. its nice to feel the cold.
to feel. for many more years to come, and through changing colours,
i know the box will keep me alive. and free.