-pandora's box-
you all know the myth.
the one with pandora.
you know, the idiot who
opened the box.
stupid, you thought
to yourself
as you read.
why did she do that?
it would be so much better
if she'd had the sense
to just leave that box
shut.
there is another story.
it isn't grand, or mystical,
and it has no moral
that i can tell.
it's just a story,
like so many
of the stories
that never get
told.
it's not about people
or animals
or a fairytale land.
it has no knights
in shining armor,
no damsels in distress,
crying out for help.
it's just a story, unlike
any other.
this story is special
because it's about a
box.
before you stop reading
overcome with disgust
and say to yourself
what junk is this?
listen. just a moment
for I have never told this
tale before, and
never will
again.
are you listening?
you know the myth.
you thought it was dumb,
maybe a little sad.
but you never heard
the story in the story.
you read about pandora,
but you never read
about the
box.
that box was me.
you don't believe me.
i can tell.
i don't blame you.
after all, how could a
box write a story?
anyways, what story could
a dumb box
tell?
let me tell you.
I was created by the
gods, given to
pandora as a gift.
it is said in the tale that
the box was beautiful.
that's a lie.
the box was ugly,
carved of twisted wood
and stained mottled
blackish brown.
but pandora kept it.
pandora, lover of pretty
things, beautiful woman,
kept a simple, hideous,
box.
why did she do it?
you ask.
why not throw the box
away and be done with
it? and you laugh
and shake your head.
what kind of idiot was
she? you say to yourself.
a pretty box I can
understand, but an ugly
one?
because it was a gift
from a god. mighty
zeus, thrower of lightning.
he was clever, this
zeus. he understood
pandora, heart and
soul. and so he gave her
a twisted, horrid box.
and she was curious.
so she kept it, always
wondering what lay inside,
that a god had deigned to give her
something so ugly,
and tell her to keep it shut
always.
that box was me.
and so i sat, year after
year, and slowly i
began to change.
the gods had put much
magick into me, so
that i might contain the
secrets placed within.
i do not know if what
happened because of it
was intentional, or a
foolish mistake. those gods
could be terrible fools sometimes.
don't get me wrong, they were
clever and sly,
cunning as well.
but they were fools.
all.
i was becoming sentient.
i could think, feel, hear,
touch. but i could not see,
nor move. all i
could do was sit
there, as i became
less and less of a
box, and eventually
something else entirely.
i was alive
in one sense. at first I was
filled only with joy and
confusion, but soon I became aware
of something else.
deep inside me,
evil was
stirring.
i could hear them whisper,
visitors to pandora's house.
i wonder why she keeps
that ugly old box. said one.
i heard it was a gift from a
god, remarked another.
wonder why it's so ugly, then.
wouldn't you think zeus would give
nicer gifts?
their words washed over me like a
flood of acid, eating away at
my newly developed mind.
it hurt, although i had no heart.
i have no soul, no blood,
no body other than that of
wood, torn from the trunk of
a long-dead tree.
my mother, i suppose you could
say.
so i remained,
day after day
week after week
year after year.
and the evil grew.
at first i did not know,
felt the same way i always
had. but it was growing,
that cluster of monstrous
darkness that haunted me.
did i know, then, what would
happen? somehow, did i predict that
pandora's stupidity and the
shadow that dwelled
in me would be
the cause of all evil in the
ages to come? i could not
have known, yet somehow
i think i must
have.
they whispered about me,
sharp, cutting words.
i heard them, from
my place high on the shelf.
i heard them, and
even now their words haunt
me. even after all these ages,
i have never
forgotten.
i heard pandora speak of me
sometimes, in that high,
lilting voice of hers.
beautiful voice. she spoke
of me proudly, but i could feel
her disgust. i could feel that she
detested the twisted box that
marred her lovely house. of
course, i never saw it.
i was just the box,
special only for the god,
who had given it as a
gift.
pandora had many faults.
first woman, great beauty,
but one of her faults was
curiosity. it was that which
would be her downfall. and mine.
foolish woman, great lady,
came one day to me.
of course, i was surprised.
her gentle hands never
touched ugliness. never
chose to hold
me.
i was glad. for the first
time in years, the darkness
receded, and i thought that
i was experiencing true
happiness. i was a fool.
why would great pandora take
a simple, ugly box from the
high shelf, but to open it?
for the first time, my catch of
rusty, tarnished metal was carefully
undone.
for the first time, and the last, i
felt the sensation of light,
shining down into the very
corners of my being.
it was wonderful.
but the darkness escaped, flew to
plague the world. for all of
eternity.
pandora slammed me shut,
and i nearly cried out. but
of course, i could not
speak. naught but
a mute box,
purpose finished,
fit only for the rubbish
heap, or for the
fire.
it is said that hope was trapped
when pandora closed the box.
but why, do i ask, did the evils
not affect anything
until they escaped,
but hope lives in the hearts of
mortals, even as it was shut in the box?
hope fled with the darkness
that left me empty,
nothing but a gaping hole where
i used to hold everything that was
me.
the unintentional gift
of life, given by
foolish gods,
had one other affect.
like the hands that crafted
me, that made me
who i was, i am
immortal. so i have
remained over the centuries,
drifting on the currents of
the universe, empty of
hope, empty of dreams,
empty even of darkness.
all that remain, are
memories.
so you have heard my tale,
listen even now. if
you looked for a moral
in this story, a
plot, a point, stop.
there is none.
it is not fiction.
it is not fact.
it is simply my story.
the story of a box. and
pandora.