Journey to Your Deepest Self

The Box

Bare Bulb

Looking inside my basement I find dirt, cobwebs, spiders, dampness, old things. Canning jars full of unidentifiable preserves on shelves to my right. A bare bulb lights up the washer and dryer and I smell laundry soap and mildew. The air on my skin feels icy-sharp, cutting. An old rug is rolled up beneath the shelves and boxes are stacked at the back. One of the top boxes has been opened and newspaper is caught mid-slither reaching for the floor. A high window above the laundry area shows ground level behind some camellias. I hear voices, just the music of voices without the lyrics, outside the window there. Humming. The camellias are in bloom. It is February. It’s just rained and I long to pack myself away in that open box and listen to things forevermore. I’ll smile to myself in my box and sometimes cry. Or tremble with fear for the girl being scolded by her father. I’ll see the dogs jogging up to the camellias and I’ll see them piss all over the window. I’ll sleep. It’ll be fine. Fine.


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