The box. Floating. Sitting. Weight is meaningless and unfamiliar concept. It is all glass. All cold and smooth. The floor is covered with the white and grey dust from my feet. Pacing and effort have covered it and I am glad. I do not want to see through the floor. I don’t want to see what is there. There are others here. Four or five, I think. We are each others nightmares here. Creeps, taps, scrapes, echoes of voices and thoughts sometimes get through to one another. Once in a while a still small voice will interupt me and if I stop immediately I can hear, “I know you are there, watching me.” We can never seem to communicate beyond accusations. I thought about only saying I cannot see you other or you haunt me too. I can only guess that was ineffective.
I think there is someone else living in my space. There are footprints on my glass floor that are not mine and the outlines of where they lay are different. There is a dog here too. It lives on one of the walls. It is the only way I can tell one side from another. The dog lives on that wall. I suspect it is also the sources of the majority of the tapping. My floor is twelve by twelve. the ceiling and walls match. I cannot walk there. I cannot see the occupants nor guess how we survive, if this existence is surviving.
There is no weight, as I said before. I can walk freely or I can take a tiny hop and float. let my hair wander over my shoulders as I lean back into a spin. This is the most enjoyable part of my day. I save it. Just after I exercise and before I sing one of my songs. I float. close my eyes and forget about the glass. Forget about what is outside. My back and all my joints lose their burden and I moan with enjoyment. It is better than a message. I would like a message, or a person. I would settle for the wall dog.
This box is bare. There is neither fun nor merciful. If I had a rope there would be no helpful gravity. No friendly poison I know how to make from my own body. No matter how many times I try to hold my breath I wake up breathing. The only what to gain force or speed is to spin. I spun at first for fun. The task quickly became an obligation to find a way to get faster. To narrowly miss the floor that would drag me to wa walk and continue my search for g-force. The world slowly became a world of white and curiously black outlines. My head only had to carry the momentum to a surface and my head would impact and neck be snapped to its rightful place and I would not be here. I would not have to imagine songs or try not to imagine just how empty it is under the ground.
I try to ignore the places that the grease has been brushed. I try not to think how purposeful the cleaning was. Once in awhile I will float and not close my eyes. I will push off the ground intently for the ceiling. I balanced myself there and hold onto another. I brush the smudges of someone else’s feet or hair out of the way and I peer into the emptiness. I cannot exist here. When would I have come and where will I possibly go. It is impossible. I look at the stars. I try to imagine that it is just above me and ignore that it is the same view below my feet. That space doesn’t stretch on on the other side of the dog or outside of the walls. As desolate and hopeless as the inside is. I cannot handle thinking outside of the box.
Outside the box. My thoughts always begin with outside the box. I don’t know if I know what is outside the box but I hope that what I think is wrong because it is impossible.