Boxes

Life, and the people in it, squeeze us into boxes.:
Sometimes we fit, sometimes not.
Often we try to live in a box not meant for us
To please other people: stressing, straining to conform
To social 'norm' or what is 'expected' as we fill a role. 

At first the box feels fine as we snuggle in,
Looking at the sky through the open lid.
We don't even notice it closing in, so cosy are we. 
Until one day we can't see the sky any more,
It has disappeared from view, and we're stuck - 

No wriggle room, shackles on, claustrophobic, stifled, 
Fused into conformity, a uniformity of existence. 
No music, no singing or bird song, joyless: 
Drone and not  queen bee, steadily descending 
Into anonymity, automaton, devoid of emotion - numb.

When realisation hits, we scratch at the lid; 
Frantic, manic in our effort to see the sky again.
To sing, to run, to flee, chasing after 'me' - if I can recognise
Myself in the madding crowd. Shouting loud, pleading for
Recognition in the sea of faces surrounding the box.
 
We are all prisoners of societal 'normality': all have roles to play.
'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances', and their boxes!
The key Is to always leave the lid ajar to see a glimpse of sky.
To have a little perch outside, and a mode in which to 'fly'.

Copyright © Helen J Radford | Year Posted 2017

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