The Box

Saad Manasterli, Staff Writer

s.manasterli@anmag.org
Fairfax, Virginia. As I sit here in my sized up cube of an ancient method of isolated
work, I juggle random ideas occurring about the world in the same manner that I
have tried to do before out of the box. I dance among the restless thoughts that
lay in my head. I twist and I turn I fall and burn, but I never learn. Where is said
box? Why is it that I and we are all afraid of being inside of, or near it? What is the
make and model? Who is the keeper of this box? Are we all keepers of the box,
arent we all technically our brothers keeper, sorry ladies, let me clear my throat
Arent we all our brothers and sisters keepers after all. So this box that we keep
hung around our necksis it the same model of ages ago or has it had the
automagically updated patches for our operating systems, and will it be the same
model for years to come? Personally, I think that the box is where we put all of our
hopes, fears, what-ifs, desires, unanswered questions, the objects of our denial,
unfound loves, unclaimed lovers, untamed others. But the question still remains the
same, you and I both know that there is no escaping the box, you can always hide or
put these unnamed objects in it, but you must remember that the box is not
bottomless.
You reap what you sow, thats what they say, you get what you put in it, and that is
still the same to this day, except the time ridden and forbidden facing of the truths
we keep ultra-hidden. Three years ago it came to a culmination. It seems that the
fields were ready for the picking and we were the hired help. It was time to sow the
oats of our negligence and naivety. The world that is us watched in amazement at
our shock and awe as we stumble through life clueless to the reality that was and
is to come. The crop had a cost and a hidden value to which end we have yet to
surmise. Free the heavy burden and your shoulders will rise again and with it your
anchor, your mind. Youre free to move along with the rest of your faculties liberated.
The box will never extinct because we have become accustomed to feeding it our
soul and becoming empty shells of our former selves, hence it then becomes our
master. So that I guess make the box the keepers of us, and we are hung around the
neck of this box of our fears, it has the leverage required for us to submerge our
heads and live shameful of who we are and what we are and all that we as
individuals are really all about. The leverage that the Box has over us is so powerful
that it forces you to your knees the moment that you realize what you have been
doing for ages and ages and ages, and collapsing ad reawaking only to realize that
we go back to the box like fly are attracted to light and always seem to find their
demise. Is it too late to recover form this demonic beast?
The burden is heavy for those that wish to carry it. And yet the bitch of a bystander
that knows just how things should be lends no helping hand! The world seems so
clear to them with their absolutes and solutions that take out every human element,
yet they call themselves participants, but participants of what might I ask?
I have been laying my eggs in this box for years, and now at the age of twentyseven, wait I lied, twenty-eight. I wonder what I have in there; what have I stored
away for all of these years, and do I actually want to find out. Becomes a kidnapping,
and we are the kidnapped, and with time as a catalyst, we in turn begin to suffer
from.

I find that the truth is always just under the surface. Always waiting for that scratch.
I, find that the world is imploding on its own emotional plane. I, speak from were I
stand, and that at times seems to be quick sand. And I dream of telling that tale
which says it all and puts every living creature at ease. I speak with a language
made simple. I speak simply, only to imply that not all conversations are as
excruciating as they might appear.
I remember once being able to leap to great heights. I used to stretch my arms out
and soar into oblivion, into absolution, into the divine, into myself, into you, into
nothing. I remember how that empty space between the earth and I used to feel. I
am now a Man and the earth feels rough and jagged. The wind that once lifted me
up to the heights, now blasts me with particles of civilizations past. Never were we to
roam this
Alone once again
Towards nothing, but my own sin
Virtue is not of itself
Leaving me nothing
But myself
Twisted morals, all shaken up
Stirred and pounded into a cup
A cup that is of me
Just waiting for that special time
That special moment
That I get served as a special drink
-- Saad Manasterli