ME, the one that no one knows.

I don't know why I started writing this.  Call it cynicism, call it an overwhelming desire to mark my descent into madness...who knows.  All I know is I don't like the way I feel right now.  Everyone knows me as a happy and fun person to be around.  Everyone except them.  They think they know me.  They think, like several others in my life, that they can place me into a certain sized-box.  Already cut out.  If you don't fit into the box, they keep pushing, and pushing, trying to make you fit.  You squeeze a bit at first, you know, because your a nice guy and you think, maybe it is my fault that I don't fit in this box.  After all why should I be who I was meant to be when I can accommodate your desires and wishes for my life.  Then they push a little harder...and it starts to hurt.  Then...you look down and see the first drop of blood.  The first drop of the very thing that gives you life.  The bright red, burning hot blood that is contrasted to the bleakness of everything around you.  It is so vibrant and real that it commands action.  That is when you put your hands on the sides of the box and begin to push back.  Just a little at first.  Trying to stop the flow of blood.  Just trying to ease the pressure so that no more life drains out of you.  But, the harder you push back, the more they push.  Then they bring in outside help.  More strength.  More pushing.  If you conform and try to fit the hole, the pressure  will stop.  They will stop pushing.  But the thought of being wedged into a box is unbearable.  The claustrophobia kicks in.  You are unable to scratch what needs to be scratched.  To stretch what needs to be stretched.  Your soul begins to die.  So you fight, with everything you have to fight.  The blood spot becomes a trickle.  You realize that there is safety inside the box.  Everyone around you is happy when you are inside the box.  They are secure, and that is what makes the box so appealing to you and everyone else.  The box let's you eat.  The box let's you be a hero in the eyes of everyone who looks up to you.  They all think that you are grown-up and responsible because you learned how to crawl inside a stupid box and have learned to pretend you like it.  You know that fighting to stay out of the box could cost you everything.  It could cost you respect.  It could cost you the most precious things you have worked your entire life.  You realize that if you keep fighting it could cost you everything.  But you could live.  Live.  Really live.  And you might die.  Like a bird falling from the nest for the first time.  When there are no restrictions you might fall.  You might die.  But if you take the same bird and never let it out of its bird house.  And you squeeze it tighter and tighter into a smaller house.  It will surely die.  At least out of the bird house it has a fighting chance.  You fight back harder.  For that little bird.  You know that the box will kill you.  You put of such struggle that now you are bleeding in a frenzied flow.  You are soaked with sweat and blood.  They have begun to tire.  The battle is on even footing.  Then they begin to say things.  Things that you know are true but don't want to hear.  Everybody hates you because you are different.  Get in the box and people will trust you.  Get in the box, it is safe there.  Go willingly and we will even help you find a more comfortable straight jacket to put on.  Get in the box.  Get in the box.  Get in the box. Get in the box.  The box starts to look really appealing.  There is safety in the box.  There is comfort in the box.  There is no blood in the box.  There is no blood because there is no fight.  People go into the box to die.  Pale faced and happy in the delusion that they are actually living.  People so in love with the box that the very thought of ever stepping out, even for a minute to stretch their legs sends them cowering into their safety blankets.  You begin to reason with yourself.  Maybe my box isn't so bad.  Maybe if I step inside my box like a good little boy they will make my box bigger.  They like me, so they probably won't fill my box with useless information and useless tasks.  But they don't.  They don't like you.  That is just another trick to make you want the box.  Crave the box.  Just get in the box.  At this point you are so confused.  People who are outside of the box have problems.  But they are free.  People inside the box have problems, but they are only free in their slavery.  Slavery is a twisted hideous form of safe.  You son't have to think for yourself.  You are hand fed.  You have a place to sleep.  Everything is great.  Except you are a slave.  You look over your bloody sweat stained clothes.  The time is now baby bird.  Get in the box.  The pressure has eased.  People are waiting for your next move so they can counter it.  This is the moment.  The decision is yours.  Either way you experience pain.  Either way you experience shame.  You are either going to be ashamed of your self for crawling broken back into the box.  Or you will be shamed by everyone and everything you know.  Get in the box.  Fly little bird.  Get in the box.  Fly little bird.  You know great people have no boxes. You know that great people have tried to rescue others from the shame of the box.  But there are no safety nets.  Any misstep and you fall to your death.  You will also take others down with you.  Because you are not you.  You are the people who count on you.  Trust you.  Love you.  People who have seen you fight the box your whole life.  People who depend on you to make the right decision.  They will support you, but a wrong move and they will resent you.  You know there is safety in the box.  You begin to ease up slightly.  They pounce knowing this is their moment.  They don't push, oh no, they are too clever for that.  They begin to bandage your wounds.  Stop the blood flow.  Tell you that they respected you all along.  All while gently guiding you back inside.  It is now or never.  Do you push back.  Do you except your inevitable fate.  Get in the box.  Fly little bird.  The words they use are sweeter now.  They bring up those that are with you.  Telling you, you are doing the right thing.  Conformity.  It is painless.  That is why everyone does it.  The bird is dying.  You can hear its screams.  Calling out for freedom.  The birdhouse is getting smaller and smaller.  You are now fully inside the box.  The fire in your eyes begins to dim.  You have one last shot.  You want to yell and scream.  But that is not how we do things around hear.  You will be quiet.  You will do what you are told.  You will stay in your box.  You will die.  Your heart beats.  You know that this is the end.  You know that everyones else will be saved by your actions.  You know that you will live.  You will never see the same.  Every view will be through the eyes of a carcass.  Dead eyes staring out.  Going through the motions.  Trapped.  Forever.  The fire will burn down.  The embers will die down.  The fuel is gone.  Everyone is happy.  A success they will cheer.  Not because you are a success.  But because they were successful at breaking you.  At killing you and replacing you with a robot.  A virtual you.  The people depending on you are happy.  They are no longer falling to the ground with no ability to fly on their own.  They are safe.  They are happy.  They don't know that you died for them.  Unable to resurrect the life that once burned bright inside you.  You are in the box.  Welcome to your coffin.  No funeral.  No remorse.  No sadness.  Just death.