Maybe it’s better just to think inside of the box. When I talk in whispers the leaves just rustle in the wind, but if I speak up, the branches start breaking off and fall to the ground. When I stack bricks inside my brain, there’s no harm done, but building bridges makes connections that can’t be ignored.

I had a white Tonka tow truck when I was little, they don’t make them like that anymore. I’m sure it would like to drive around inside my head and cross bridges and make dozens of connections, maybe even speed across the road, and eventually reach out to someone who needs a tow. Because someone else out there must be stuck in their box, too.

It’s dark in here. I keep looking down, because there’s light near my feet, but they are the ugliest thing about me, so my mind says look up again. Look back to the darkness.

When I look in the darkness, I hear whispers, voices at first, then music, and when I recognize the song, a smile spreads across my face. My favorite manic music. I dance with this box on my head, with no one telling me how to move, just choosing my own way for limbs to flail then flow. I hear myself singing; the words are rare and beautiful. Inside this box, my voice is beautiful.