The Box

Her entire life seemed to always fit inside of a box, except for her. She never seemed to understand the societal norms, what was to be expected, or how to function in this world.

Sometimes this was a good thing.

It was a good thing when she was dealing with situations where the people around her did not understand or didn't know how to act. She could come in and pretend. She could stare through the person in front of her, nodding, smiling, and giving the impression that she not only understood, but that she cared.

It was a good thing when she could completely emotionally detach herself from situations at work, that others couldn't.

It was a good thing when she interacted with others like herself, because she understood them better than the people around her. The ones who thought she fit in with them. The ones who didn't realize that she was pretending.

She didn't hear a word they said most of the time.

She usually felt like the whole world around her was about to self-destruct.

It wasn't a good thing when she was trying to build anything beyond the mundane, superficial day-to-day. She didn't know how to function beyond that. She never really needed to.

She would rather be alone, except that being alone left her alone with her dark and wicked thoughts.

Maybe that is why she moved a lot.

She pulled the box out of her closet, and she began to fill it.

She was an expert at moving- she had moved about a dozen times in her adult life. She had moved on from a couple dozen relationships that never lasted; she found dealing with others to be both nearly impossible to comprehend and difficult to deal with.

When she fills the box, she doesn't just put the items inside- she places all of the thoughts, emotional attachments, and memories that go along with the items into the box as well.

They stay together, because they belong together.

Sometimes these boxes go back on the shelf and she allows them to come back later- and she revisits them.

Sometimes the boxes go right outside to the dumpster, because she has decided that there is no time to deal with this: now or later.

She named this box "42"- due to the infinite majesty and calm, sending it out will bring.

"Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything" as any sci-fi fanatic knows.

42.

The box would be sent 42 miles, with all of the memories, thoughts, and any emotions she had left associated with it. She had no choice. It was time and there was nothing left to add, on any realm.

She filled the box, as it needed to be moved out today.

She wasn’t just good at moving; she was fast and efficient.

She wondered if she should take one last look at the items before boxing them up, but decided it would be for the best not to. She didn't have the time, anyway.

She needed to move.

Moving is what she does best.

And she does it quickly.

Does anyone have a towel?

She placed a couple of old pictures, none of which she was in, safely within the box. She decided to put a couple of the photos in frames. She wasn't sure why. A few cards- which either brought back memories of pain or reminded her things are never what they seem to be. Happiness can be nothing more than a facade of lies, misconception, and illusions.

She now knew that very worst poetry of all did NOT perish along with its creator, Paul Neil Milne Johnstone of Redbridge, in the destruction of the planet Earth. And that while Vogon poetry may be mild by comparison- she knew of others that could serve as a torture method, as it causes physical pain to the hearer- or reader.

She smiled a bit with her realization. And continued to move forward.

As she packed the box, she placed a barrier between herself and everything within. She did not allow herself to feel, nor to cry. She had done enough of both already.

This was about moving forward. Growth. Production. Getting to the finish line.

Once the box is gone, she can forget everything within.

Is there money on here? It doesn't matter. In the box.

She debated if she should box up the memories not yet made, but put them back on the shelf.

She would save that for another day.

A small silver box, sitting on her bed, shines bright, but brings darkness.

She puts it in the box, with the sadness of knowing what it could have been.

The past. The present. But no longer a future.

42 held a lot of answers, but none hers. She still had questions that would never be answered.

But she was good at moving.

Quickly.

It wouldn't matter anymore after the move.

42 was almost gone. Forever.

The move would only be forward.

She didn’t look back anymore. She didn’t want to.

And she couldn’t.

She would rather be happy than right- any day.

She sat at her desk, collected her thoughts, and added one last piece to the box: a letter. One that allowed her to do what she did best: fully move. It provided answers. It made box 42 complete, easier to close for good, and sent away.

A few times during the process, she reminded herself:

"Don't Panic."

This is 42.

She placed the letter on top of everything else and took the box out.

A 42 mile trip. It would hitchhike through the galaxy on its own. It would hopefully land where it needed to be.

Don’t Panic.

She wasn't sure if it would make it. She wasn't sure if or how it would be received.

She wasn't sure what would come of it, but she didn’t need to know anymore either.

She was at peace.

Please Relax. You are perfectly safe.

She knew that she was an expert at moving.

Quickly.

The box was gone.

-And with it, it took all of the the pain and torment that the contents within had brought into her life.

“All you really need to know for the moment is that the universe is a lot more complicated than you might think, even if you start from a position of thinking it’s pretty damn complicated in the first place.” -Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Series, Mostly Harmless.