I knew a boy who was born in a box.
He lived in the box. Awoke in the box. Slept in the box. Ate in the box. Read in the box. He did everything in the box, in fact he never left the box. He didn’t know how. In fact, he didn’t even know there was anything to leave the box for. He thought the box was everything.
One day, the boy heard a sound outside the box. He wondered what it could be. The boy pressed his ear to the wall of the box and listened closely. He could hear faint sounds, many sounds, sounds he had never heard before. The boy wondered what all these sounds could be. What could be on the outside of the box?
The boy began to knock at the walls of the box, but couldn’t open it. He began to bang on the walls of the box, but still could not open it. He began to tear at the walls of the box, and saw light begin to pour in. He dug harder at the tiny hole he had produced and even more light began to shine inside. The sounds became louder, and looking out through the hole he saw all sorts of shapes, colours, sizes . . . he didn’t know what to make of any of it, but wanted to see more.
The boy tore at all the walls of the box, and stood up in a swift motion, ripping the box to shreds as he did. The bits of the box fell off and began to blow away in the breeze. The boy stood in the middle of a street, huge metal cars whizzing by on both sides. The blurring sites and cacophonous sounds assaulted the boy’s eyes and ears. He covered his face, and then his the sides of his head, then his face again.
The world outside the box was too loud.
The world outside the box was too bright.
The world outside the box was too big.
The boy looked around for his home, the box, but only saw shreds of cardboard twirling in the wind. The box was gone.