The Box

when i was seventeen and i initially fell out on my own, one of the first things i purchased was a cigar box; a cherry, mahogany colored cigar box. i carved a satellite picture of the world from space from some magazine and lacquered it onto the lid with clear finger-nail polish. my intention for this box was succinct; i planned to use it to hold my drug paraphernalia – pipes, papers, filters, my stash, even a tooter, just in case.

but it wasn’t long before my habit outgrew my box. it had never lost its utility, though. i kept extra screens there, a spare pack of papers, a lighter, a couple of extra metal pipe pieces, but not enough to make anything convenient to smoke from. the tooter never could stay in its place. there were serious times, dry times, even times when the razors and the mirror found a place inside its walls. but they had never stayed more than a week. ever.

i can safely say that after over a decade of memories, this box is no longer home to certain things. no more seals, no powders, no blades or plates; no needles, no glass, no unmarked pills; no one-way tickets. it is the life of an addict, though, to know that this box is never empty. what lies within are medicines of various kinds, homages as well as warnings, and tools of obsolete methods to be acknowledged and thought of as such.

this box will never be too far tucked away. i refuse to completely hide myself in the status quo. in many ways, my past is my present. my shadows are very much a part of the light. i am well aware that the very fact that my past is so shaded is a direct result of the brightness that surrounds me now, and i know that while it is good to hide in the shade sometimes, the bitter cold and lack of sunshine stifles most forms of life.

this earthly box may house the tools to sow the seeds, but only outside this box can a tree bearing fruits of wisdom and compassion be allowed to grow.