The Box

The Box is a container typically constructed with four sides perpendicular to the base and often having a lid or cover. The Box represents a barrier, into which are held, shipped and stored objects that, when proxied literal, are formed of matter, and, when proxied metaphysical, are as concreate and palpable as subparticles of data. The Box is all around you, witholding your literal and metaphysical faculties within it's packaged sensibilities. Your mind, soul, and body, in shape, are crudely moulded into the boxicle shape of your at-this-point existence. None can escape the Box who are exposed to it's lustre. The Box is your shelter, into which you have been hidden, and protected, you whole life. The Box is a recurring symbol; the recurring symbol of the Box is the strength of it's purpose. The most influential objects in your posession are children of The Box. The Television; it is the tool of global deceit, whereby the thoughts and ideas of the Boxicle Perpetrators are communicated on a mass scale. The box of your environment encages you; your four corners compact your intellectual growth and conform your cognitive reality into a series of neat packages; the design of your city pay homage to the box, and it's rectangular cousins; the boxicle essence is inescapably run amuck. The box cannot be opened or acutely rearranged from within. It is The Hand of the Supreme Sentinal -- he is the Master -- he opens and closes your atmosphere to light, or dark, and may place you at moutaintops, or cast you spinning into the open sea's. You know not when it is dark or dusk, wet or dry; the contraption of your captive realism perverts your inward-boxicle movements, and supports your roboticism, and makes your physical and metaphysical limbs confined, diminutive, less-than-flesh. Can you be truly called a conscious being, you who have been so demoted in terms of your conscious ability of locomotion? Beings that more-than-machine may be found merged into the box. The boxicle rendition is upon you; less you flee it, it shall be the device of your burial into the warm embrace of the spherical earth -- your Mother -- who will woe the day of your cenception at your Deathday. The Box, as concerns nature and estutivity and sense and reason of the true and creative God-beast of homo-sapien, is wick-ed...