The Heavy Box

   The box is surprisingly heavy. I can feel the hard casing through the velvet bag. The pull strings dangle unceremoniously. The box is heavy, but so small. My thumbs rest on the top as my fingers weigh it. My arms want to push it away while my heart wants to hug it. My mind does not want to think about it, so it keeps thinking how heavy the box is. Don’t think about the people who just came in, and handed you the box. Cars and vans unload their passengers, stamping off the snow from boots as they file in the door. Their long dark coats cover their dark pants, their dark dresses, their dark moods. They don’t look at the box either, as they hug the giver and file past. The box is so heavy for such a small size.
   The smell of coffee trails by with people coming from the kitchen. Mingling conversations are hushed and nervous, unsure of what to say, what is supposed to be said. The giver is swept off without a word, arms surrounding her and releasing her to the next set like a wave on the ocean. I looked down for a moment, the forest green bag is too thin to do anything but keep it away from sight but the form reminds you that there is still a box there, a heavy box. My feet are numb, afraid to give away or tumble if they move. My throat is closing up, I am afraid to speak for fear that it may come out as a cough, no sudden moves allowed.
   My eyes scan the room. Familiar faces pull the lump in my heart through my chest as I try to swallow it back down. My eyes meet those of the elder gentleman, with strong hands that are tending to the shoulders and backs of fragile souls. I send a silent cry for salvation screaming through the crowd. I look down; lift the box ever so slightly to somehow turn it into a part of my plea. I look up and his eyes meet mine in acknowledgement. My heart wells up with the hope of reprieve.
   The box is so heavy. My fingers are cramping under the weight. They spread ever so slightly to try and find relief. The bag starts slipping. The solid box suddenly feels like it is made of puzzle pieces, my fingers won’t keep still, won’t keep their grip. The box pulls the material loose. My mind is caught in a warning flash of dread. Warm hands envelope the cold weak fingers. Grateful eyes meet, one set in warm appreciation, the other in frightful debt. The breath is released, the grip is relinquished, and the weight is lifted.
   Placed on the mantle, the box doesn’t look heavy. From afar it seems too small to hold a lifetime. My mind tries to disperse the weight that had registered in the three minutes of experience, when I held 60 years of love.

My brain sneezed. Bless me.

I hate myself when I finish talking. Not because I want to talk more, but because I wish I would talk less.

My husband says I am a professional bubble popper. If you have an idea, a dream, a thought of something grandiose…tell me and I will pop your bubble. And usually be right.

I bought a T-Shirt the other day. It said I might be wrong…but I doubt it. That sums it up.

My brain seems to think faster than other peoples do. I make links in conversations with the piles of useless scraps of information floating in my synapses. When they are triggered, they join and make sense. Not just make sense, but really, they make more sense than they should. I don’t know how, or why.

When I start a task, I am not aware that I am doing it. My brain kicks into gear. I think, I think, I think then all of a sudden there it is. A cohesive thought that gosh darn it, makes sense.

I think my brain is weird. It thinks, of course, but it also goes loopy once in a while. It won’t shut off, or shut up.

I think about what I just said. I think about what I just wrote. I think about what I just did. I think about what I should do. What I could do. What I would do. What I didn’t do. I think about what others are thinking. I think about how the world works, doesn’t work, could work. It just keeps going.

Everything I see looks like an opportunity. I want to see it again. I want to try that. I could do that. I could do it better.   Have you ever thought of doing it like this? What about trying it like that? I was thinking that you could try it like this? What would happen if you did it like that?

Evaluate. Improve. Review. Feedback. Learn. Watch. Suggest. Hint.
Talented. Intelligent. Smart. Savvy. Wise. Experienced. Innovative. Original. Creative. Hard-working. Team player. Inspiring. Logical.
Glory hog. Self-centered. Opportunistic. Know-it-all. Big mouth.

Do I make sense? Am I talking out my ass? Does anyone else notice this? Would anyone else say anything?

I think I know what I am talking about. It make sense to me, the dots all connect by themselves without me even realizing it.

What do I want to do? What am I supposed to do? What do you want me to do? What should I do?

I think some days I want to learn just to be able to figure myself out. Someday, I will find that one book, hear that one lecture, talk to that one person who will tell me what path I am on. That I am not alone on it, and that others before me were successful at achieving something by it.

Success, what a mysterious word. When are you successful. Afterwards, is there not just another goal that needs to be fulfilled? How are people happy now, are they really fulfilled and content to be where they are? I cannot understand that state of just being. Not wanting to learn more, do more, meet more, think more. What an alien concept to not strive for something, for anything.

Is there anything less than your best? Is there such a thing or is the mediocre your best at that time in that context?

Context is immeasurable. It is perspective. It is the individual reality. Without it, nothing exists, for it is all in relation to another.

The apple is red. But, is it really? Is my red your red? Is it not a blend of greens, yellows, browns, whites, blacks, greys? Maybe that is part of the answer. If you train your eye to see only red, then you do not notice the greens and yellows. It is simply red. But to a mind that is forever looking closely, analyzing, evaluating, judging, comparing; there is no such thing as red.

Perspective is how you see it. Context is why you see it. Wisdom is how you interpret it. Happiness is how you deal with it. Challenge is how you make the experience better. Success, well, maybe it is just being able to notice it in the first place.

This is my brain.  This is my brain without drugs.  (You shoulda seen it in high school!)

Five seconds.

My back slid down the wall as my legs turned into useless canes. My heart exploded and was crushed at the same time. The crushing sensation was like a blow to my body. I kept sucking in air but the jagged spasms of my chest wouldn’t let enough in. My eyes blurred and overflowed. My lips contorted into thin lines of down-turned anguish. I felt for the floor with a limp arm before I hit the cold tile.

My hand clenched the note, grinding it into itself. Maybe if I wrung it tight enough, it would imprison the words and stop them from becoming thoughts of the past, the future. The air escaped from me, deflating the rage, pain, denial, defeat. The crumpled ball rolled from my hand. My shoulders slumped, every muscle numb. My head lolled to my chest as my open eyes saw nothing.

The air was siphoned back in with a calmness of a world that seemed to have stopped turning. The tile was covered in patterns of grey, brown and auburn lines. The raised edges of colour overlapped, twisted and turned. The continuation of design was endless. The possibilities of randomness were innumerable. The mind’s eye could get lost in the shapes, avoiding the thoughts.  Thoughts.  My eyes twitched back to my hand.  The paper wadded up beside it.  Thoughts.  Pulled up knees wrapped in cold arms trying to keep the leeching thoughts from forming a reality that was...that is.  Dammit.  Question not what was on the paper, know instead that the paper made me who I am today.