Houdini is my Hero

There they’ve done it again. They’ve picked me up out of my normal life and put me back in the box. They think I belong in the box, in some sort of squarish space with four straight sides and a bottom, plus four flaps on top that may or may not provide me with a possibility of escaping.

It’s possible that every one of us gets put in a box at some point in life, but it’s also possible that some of us spend a lot more time in one. That can be for different reasons. Some people accept the box and plod on, although their plodding is slow because the box provides little space for maneuvering. Some aren’t as ready to conform and spend all their time struggling to get out of the box, to get free. Others aren’t even aware of the four walls that people have erected around them. This last group is the one that saddens me the most.

Of course the boxes people occupy are not all the same. I can only talk about my own and let you decide whether it’s a good box or bad, if I should accept it or break free. It hasn’t destroyed me yet, but I’m not sure how long that can last. If getting out, reaching the other side, is the right thing to do, fine, but it’s difficult to calculate the cost.

Let’s see… I am here at the bottom of this thing that resembles cardboard but is a lot stronger. The walls are nondescript, are a washed-out café au lait color that means nothing. North is south is east is west. I need a compass, but when I was pushed in here I wasn’t given one. If I call up now, even using my sweetest come-hither voice, nobody is going to drop a compass over the side. Then again, a compass tells the four cardinal points, but it doesn’t indicate up or down, I don’t think.

It’s not clear if the oxygen level is sufficient here inside, but most likely it isn’t, or at least is in danger of being depleted. That would definitely add to my already-present claustrophobia, don’t you think? I can’t see my breath when I breathe out, but then it’s not cold enough in here to see any vapor. It’s also too dark most of the time, even if I could see puffs of air coming from my mouth.

It’s like all my senses are being deprived of stimulation. I can barely see. There’s nothing organic in here, so I can’t smell anything. (Although who knows what the situation will be after I’ve been in here for a week or even a month.) I’m afraid to lick anything, because who knows what was in this box before they put me in here? One can’t be too careful. I must remember not to put my fingers in my mouth or rub my eyes.

My hearing is quite keen, so I can detect various noises in the vicinity. Some are made by people, but there are others that kind of sound like an animal is making them. I prefer the animal noises, definitely. At times there seems to be a remnant of a song, not sung, just played on a single, simple instrument. It’s impossible to tell what the song is about or even if it is happy or sad. The notes never quite align themselves in a melody to which I could sing along.

Sometimes all the vestiges of song are whipped away by a wind that seems determined to frighten me so that I remain boxed in. That tactic usually works. I do not want to go against forces that are stronger than I am.

So what is left for me to use as a means of escaping from this enclosure that will surely be the death of me if I can’t find a way out. I am starting to gulp in air, which is not a good sign. I am also unable to get a purchase on any of the sides of this box. They’re too smooth and my nails can’t find any part where they can sink in. They just scratch a little on the surface. I’m getting nowhere fast and must focus. A panic attack at this point will do absolutely nothing to free me.

No, I will not panic. If I fall over and faint, I’ll be seen as the weak, hysterical woman. If I stay upright and wail, they might pity me and be more convinced than over that I belong in here. That’s not fair, since they’re the ones responsible for my dilemma, yet they blame me or think I caused it.

They don’t want me to be anything more than a limp body and mind, accepting and compliant. They’re prepared to like me if I can manage that. They’re possibly going to let me out, too, if I can convince them that my behavior outside will be as untarnished as it is inside. Trouble is, I don’t know how to convince them, other than making myself very small and silent.

But I am neither a worm nor a dead mouse. I am aware of my situation and convinced I can get out. In here I am colorless, weightless, voiceless. I spend a lot of time watching popular TV programs and Master Chef. I write in my journal, which is very small, and the majority of the entries are about the weather or housework (which I have a good excuse for avoiding as long as I’m packed away inside these four boring walls.

It’s quit now; either they’ve forgotten about me or are pleased at my silence. Maybe it has lulled them to sleep. But while they are sleeping, I’m determined to get my hooks into the slippery cardboard barriers, just you wait and see. Slowly, slowly, slowly…

Yes! I’m free! I can be me, can say what I feel, go anywhere, do anything. Anything as long as they don’t notice I’ve escaped, like a little bug. 

And this is my response: I will bite them all like a bloodthirsty mosquito or horsefly. I will make them itch and burn so much they won’t even think about me. I’ll wait until they’re really desperate, searching for the little creature who is capable of making them so uncomfortable.

Let them put somebody else in a box! I’m never going back. Never.