I'm in my box. Nothing bothers me.
I've been in here for a while now. It's dark, and it's not very comfy, but it makes me feel safe. Not to mention it's warm. I'm never warm anymore.
I know someone is outside my box, waiting for me to come out, but I won't. I don't have to leave for anything. In here, I have everything I need. But still, they wait. And I'm not sure whether it's been hours or years, but eventually they will come, and open up my box, and pull me out. They'll tell me I can't stay in there forever. But I think I could, if they'd let me.
Hours or years, hours or years. Time is different in my box. Nothing matters, there is nothing to be done, no where to go, nothing but me and the air around me. When I'm in here, time stops. I can escape. But when I'm in here, I don't remember what I'm escaping. I don't remember if it hurts, or if it's scary, because nothing bothers me here.
Sometimes I try to see who is outside my box, but I can't get a good view without opening it. I don't want to open it. I guess I don't want to see. Sometimes I think it's my mother (did I have a mother?) or maybe a teacher (did I ever go to school?) But I won't open my box, so I guess I'll never know.
Sometimes I think, if I listen hard enough, I will hear something that will tell me what's outside. But, most of the time, all I hear is silence. It's strangely comforting.
Every now and then, I try to remember things about myself. How old am I? (you're dead it doesn't matter) what's my name? (nothing matters) Where am I? (in the box, always in the box)
Sometimes, memories start to form, I start to remember little bits and pieces of a life. Mine? I don't know. Because whenever I start to see anything clearly, the top of my box is lifted away, and a voice says, "Time to come out. You can't stay in there forever."
I'm in my box. Nothing bothers me.