The Boxcar Children: All Grown Up

I’m in a silver box.

It’s creaky, old, and not conducive for neat handwriting. It stinks. The stench is almost unbearable, yet nobody seems to mind, much less notice. Possibly, because nobody is paying any attention to the world around them. Everyone is quiet. Everyone has a blindfold on that they seem to enjoy quite nicely. And everyone’s ears are plugged.

How did I get here?

How the hell did I get here?

Sitting amongst those frozen in their seats as this steel box steals us away from everything else we’d rather be doing right now. We’re all on borrowed time, but now we’ve repackaged it, bundled it, and sold it off to the highest bidder, and here we are, fuel for the furnace that powers this machine. A machine that begs to be recognized, begs to be worshiped with our time, energy, our lives, yet only sustains itself through the legitimacy you and I lend it. Much like a government.

We fight to be, to have, to acquire, a place on this box. We’re the cattle who fight the herd to find a place to rest and eat, shelter, someone to look after our comings and goings, all along never realizing that they are bred and raised to be slaughtered and consumed…

Well, here’s my stop; funny how that word has much more meaning today.