There’s this box, you see. It stands as a metaphor about human culture, or maybe it was imagination. Whatever it was, or rather whatever it was supposed to represent, the box has since become something else, something its original metaphoricalizer never intended.
Back in the old days — when cars could fly, we held races in space, and the future was something to look forward to — boxes were ordinary storage mechanisms. Most were made of cardboard, some of wood, others of plastic, or various and sundry. They typically held objects and substances. Some made wonderful toys.
Today, however, boxes are so much more, and less: they exist solely as cognitive constructs — ideas to be thought of, memes to be shared. They hold not things but ideas. They hold those parts of us that we cannot hold ourselves.
I’m trying so hard to make this essay interesting, but it isn’t. I want so much to write about something other than this box, but since it’s the focus of the story, I guess I’m stuck with it.
I just can’t write outside the box.