I remember cardboard boxes today. This must be the most boring and basic memory I have ever had. Especially lately. I thought I was finding a way somewhere forward from here, but now all that is in my mind is boxes. Cardboard boxes. The kind you ship packages in, the ones that pile up to the door while you are out. Waste of the day, and broken down without a second thought. I am remembering the way the light would shine into and through the corners of a folded up box. The area where the edges fold together at the bottom of the box.

I remember seeing the darkness inside the box. Seeing how black it was in the light of the room. Then looking inside, and noticing that there was a speck of light. A tiny starpoint of light, and rays of light pulling out of the center of it all. I remember staring at that tiny bright spot. The weakness of the box, the joining spot, showing through. Everything in the box was darkness, and this one place allowed so much light to flow through. And it went travelling past all that darkness to my eye.

Why would something like that even make me stop? I normally don’t notice the light. I see the things it lights, but not the light itself. I can’t even remember the last time i was in the sun. I can’t remember this room having light either. Just the glow that covers everything in here. And somehow, even my dreams seem to reflect this. They have a color, and a hue, but not a source of either thing. There is never a place i can point to and say ‘There, there is the light.’

But this box. It was amazing. The light was so bright in the center of it all. And then the rays coming off the side seemed to go on forever. Also, they didn’t really end. They trailed off into dimmer and dimmer light. Slowly fading. I remember moving the box slowly back and forth. The intensity of the hole waxing and waning. Almost like I was under a spell. Mystified by the light. No matter what happens, I have never lost that. The ability to become entranced by the simplest of things. That must be a gift of some kind. Some way to recharge into the things around me. Finding meaning in the world in a way that keeps my mind connected.

I would love to find that box again. Somewhere It must be sitting in a basement. or broken down and waiting to be reused. It must still be there and waiting to look through again. Or is it gone forever? It is hard to notice the magical things when I have to wait for them to make themselves known to me. I can’t produce them on my own. I can’t leave and go find them. I sit here, and I wait for magic. For something like memories or magic to happen.