This is your life here. In this box of jar. It doesn‘t matter if that makes sense or not because this is your life. And this box of jar isn‘t even filled. Where is the rest of your life? You are disappointed. You‘d have thought that your live was dozens of boxes of jars. But this is all you‘ve got. You could keep on going, adding to that box of jar or you could just throw that crap away.

You look at it and you really don‘t know what to do with it. You feel like there is nothing left to do. There is nothing left for you to do.

You could open that box of jar. Take a look at what‘s inside. But you don‘t want to. That’s why you‘ve been hiding it for all this time. But now you‘ve got it in your hands and it’s less than what you remember, and you can‘t help but feel disappointed. And a bit of resentment towards that box of jar. A lot of resentment.

The box looks like it’s molding and the jar is musky and grey. Kind of like how you are feeling right now. These things have been circling around you for days now. They are grey and make you feel hollow. Your eyes in the middle of it all keep looking down at your pathetic box of jar.

The hardwood floor you are sitting on is grey and worn. Your dress is all dirty and you belong in this place, as does your box of jar. There isn’t much light in the room. Little flickers of sunshine fight their way between the ripped curtains but it seems like as soon as they get in they are in a hurry to get out again.

You decide to open the jar. Your fingers are thin and your skin looks grey, too, when you struggle with the lid. A bitter smell hits your nose hard when you finally get the jar open. You feel the shadows creeping out of it and filling the air. Blocking the light completely. You cough and you think about crying. Because that’s what you are supposed to do. You are supposed to scream.

But you can’t and instead your lip trembles and you lose your mind. You can’t think and there is no one else in the world. Only this box of jar and the disgusting things that it kept forgotten. But now you remember and you will never be strong enough to close that box of jar again.

The shadows overwhelm you. You tried to cut them out before. But everything kept reminding you of them and there you are. With your box of jar. In your hands. Your hands and your hands only. No one else can control what you would do now.

It can all end. You throw the box of jar at the wall in front of you and it rains glass. It rains whatever comes to your mind.

You feel the circles close in on your eyes now and everything becomes blurry. Becomes black.

You feel nothing, you're gone.
"Reading is one form of escape. Running for your life is another."