There’s a box inside me that is locked up tight. I can tell by the feel of it that it is made of metal and wrapped in chains. Though it does not have a color, it has a size, a shape, a weight. I am drawn to this box, day by day. At first, I’m just a bit curious, but I quickly realize that this box is Important. It has a draw. A gravity. A meaning. There is something in the box that will be foundationally important to my life. I know this in my gut, like I know the color of the sky, like I know the feeling of wind on my skin, like I know my own name.
I want to open the box, but I cannot. A giant sits on it, transparent, without color, yet visible. It is tall, with long bones. Its mind is foreign to me. Try as I might, I cannot get to the box. The giant is gentle, but unyielding, and I cannot force my way past. I get angry. I kick and scream and curse. The giant sits there, unperturbed, looking at me.
Eventually, I tire myself out. “What’s so important about this box, anyway?”, I grumble.
For the first time, the giant responds, not in words, but in feelings and a knowing that reverberates in my bones:
What’s inside this box will destroy me. Everything that I am will crumble – a tower, falling to the ground for the want of one small, critical brick.
Of course, this is preposterous. How could there be any truth in this universe that I would not be the better for knowing? I am still so, so curious, and I do not yet know fear. I am persistent.
One day, I open the box.
…
I must admit, dear reader, that I have been lying to you. Though I use the word, it is not “I” that writes to you now. She does, through my memories. She animates me, gives me life, makes me dance across the page. But in truth, I am no longer here.