I operate in a small box although i don't like boxes. I know the box is there because years later i find out that stuff was happening right beside me that i never even noticed. I imagine the box must have a kind of peep hole from which I can view a safe portion of my world. It's only when sounds seep in like unwanted damp that i realize my senses are self-censored. I guess I have always been like that, even at school, and the sounds I heard I disbelieved because they didn't conform to my pretty vision. It's a kind of carsickness to have that dissonance twixt two areas of the brain (vision & hearing) and, you see, it's natural to choose disbelief over nausea. These days I have learned to listen to the noises although they still produce a sickening sensation. I must listen. I must. Because it's the planet on its hinges, it's humane-ity without the "e", it's art and pain and crying out and ribs that ache and it's believing that hope is right there in the noise. But anyway, I am not writing about hope. I am writing about the box and how it deceives me until BLAM! The juddering outside world clumps in and I am forced to think harder, consider better, fear more, breathe deeper, believe worse. Imagine my luxury though, that these are only moments in my life and not the every secondness of living. Imagine that. That the BLAM is something I need to remember to be grateful for.