A Story by emilythestrange

This entire world is made up of boxes- are you happy, or sad? Pretty, or ugly? Good, or bad? Living, or dead? The little stick figures we make ourselves out to be don’t exist. When people refuse to fit into the boxes we make, we build boxes for them . And in the end, we all try to fit into a box. We all find a home in the corner of our own destruction and build boxes and boxes and boxes until it’s all we are. Until we have become the stick figure caricatures we all make each other out to be. Until we are dust. Until we can be remembered as nothing other than what they make us out to be, what we make ourselves out to be.


It’s comforting, in the end. For people to put themselves in boxes. It means other people do it too- the only reason the world isn’t anarchy is because some people have the same ideas and ideals, after all (a lie). The reason we stand here today is because our parents were honourable, kind, sweet, straight, (and another). We all come from the same basic template, after all (another). People are what they are because they choose to be that. People are outlawed because they broke rules. People are outlawed because they are not like us, dear. Because they are different, darling. Because they stopped us from feeling safe. Because they threatened us (when will they realise it is them with the razor teeth and bullets, not us? when will they see that we are only ever what they created?). For some people, it is easy to live life like we are not sleeping atop a mountain of skeletons in closets (‘it only happened once, I swear’) and blood pouring from self contained wounds. In the end we are all outlaws.


In the end, when the sun turns you to dust and turns me to grass and all the men and women and children turn to the skies and say, “I am innocent, do not take me! I was what you expected! I was what you wanted!” we will realise that we are no one’s children. And we will see the ground turn grey under our feet and we will feel the air around us shatter and as we choke to death, f**s and s***s and criminals and outlaws, all of us- we will wonder, ‘when was my mistake? Was it when I stole from my mother’s purse? Was it when I raised my hand to her? When I kept on driving? When his blood, pouring onto the carpet, didn’t stop me from taking another hit? When? When?’, and we will see that we are not born innocent and we are not born whole or true or anyone’s template, we are born in a sin we created, we are born out of the backseats of cars and the toilets of restaurants and alleyways and bedrooms and the back door of hell leads here. The back door of hell leads to this earth, and these people, because we are not worth dirtying the grand foyer. Because we are the sin and blood of one hundred thousand years of dirt and spit and the cracks of whips. We are nonexistent. We do not matter. We are nothing more than the way the trees moved on the day you were born, and the way they still stood the day you died. We are specks on glass and plastic of this universe and we do not have any rights.


I am made of every box and stick figure. Of every shout of ‘f*g!’ and ‘s**t!’ and ‘criminal!’. I am every nightmare and dream and f**k you’ve ever had- I am air and water and the cool night sky. I am made of you. I am what you made me. You have created me to attempt to redeem yourself when you know yourself to be unredeemable. I am nothing and everything. You are nothing, or everything. Choose.



© 2015 emilythestrange

Author's Note

I had this up on another account, so I decided I'd put it up here! I've been gone for a while- I took a bit of a break from writing- but I'm back now! Please leave a review if you can!

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Added on December 1, 2015
Last Updated on December 1, 2015



The Place that my Pen may take me, Scotland, United Kingdom

Amateur writer, director, live-er, hair brusher, modern-living-girl, and brussel sprout eater, and cleaner. Professional poet, wonder-er, reader, imagin-eer, word user, weirdo, Nerdfighter, Danasaur,.. more..