Cardboard Box Dreams

(The following is something I wrote on a day when my mind wouldn't stop thinking. I wrote it in April and have recently discovered it stashed away in my journal.)


I always dreamed of leaving home; of leaving behind the cornfields and the drama that seemed to grow more scandalous as it's owners aged, but then I did. I graduated high school, moved with my family to another town, and talked myself through the longest summer of my life. I couldn't wait to leave. So it was no shocker that when the end of August rolled around I was packed and looking forward to a new adventure. College was the fresh start I needed. It wasn't an easy transition, by no means, but it was the one that allowed me to use the glorious wings I had spent the previous eighteen years of my life growing.

Growing up, I wasn't really ever like my peers. This is something I can now be thankful for. Sure, I dreamed of marriage, of mansions, and motherhood....but not to the extent my friends did. When I was about fourteen it became obvious I was different. All my friends were  talking about becoming doctors, or vets, or living in gigantic houses with cars that I would be fearful of owning (for I would not want to risk getting into a accident with a car that expensive). I, however, was pushing aside bridal magazines and their pretty dresses that seemed to scream perfect happiness to my friends for science-fiction books. This was something not too many people liked and very few encouraged. Yet, it was because of a science-fiction book and my little sister that I found my dream. 

Forget mansions. Forget fancy cars. Forget home cooked meals. I was fourteen when I decided that I wouldn't mind living in a cardboard box, as long as it meant I could write. 

My dream morphed and became this picture of myself standing in front of a window of a tiny apartment.. It would be night and I would be admiring the city I lived in. I always thought a city at night was one of the most beautiful sights to beheld. There'd be a bowl of Spaghetti-O's on the coffee table, a box of bombpops in the freezer, and a computer with my latest story open on it's screen. That was my dream. 

I saw graduation as a chance to reach that dream. I left home, moved into a dorm, and started my college education. Everything was find and dandy. Sure, I hit a few road blocks and got into some arguments, but I  never expected the road to be easy. I never wanted it to be. Something happened along the way, though, and I'm not sure when or how it occurred, but I got lost. I slipped and my writing began to become tainted. 

At twenty-one years old, a junior in college, and the owner of a planner packed to the brim with work and assignments, my writing had become lazy. I started some stories with friends, and pushed aside some others that I had lost interest in. I figured at least writing with friends was still writing...but then my priorities shifted. 

I want that apartment. I need a car. More hours of work? Sure, I could use the money. Four papers to write, a speech to give, a presentation to put together, a quiz to study for, and..wasn't there something due today? Yeah, those were my thoughts and I was left to wonder what ever happened to I'd-be-content-in-a-cardboard-box?

I was laying in my bed one night, pondering that question. It was one in the morning, but the lights were on and the TV was blasting some crime scene show that was intent on ruining it's viewers' psyches. What is seen can't be unseen, and I only wish I could un-see some of the things that show had shown me. My roommate  was obsessed with it though. All day, all night, there was always some cop show playing. I didn't complain. I left the room if it got to be too much, but that night it was bugging me to the point of insomnia. So, I found a way to distract my thoughts. I thought about writing. 

One thought led to another and I was soon giving nostalgic smiles as I perused my mind's archives. I worked my was back to the first book I wrote and then, suddenly I wasn't alone. 

"Hey," I turned at the sound of the voice, the file of my first book open in my hand, and stood mouth agape as my eyes locked with the brown ones of someone I hadn't seen in a long time. 

There before me, in the dark filing system of my mind, stood a seventeen-year-old male with brown hair and the kindest eyes. His voice had been so shy when he had spoken, so soft, but it didn't mask his identity. On the contrary, it confirmed it. Khaki pants, a green tee-shirt reading SFA, and a pair of worn sneakers only added to the confirmation of his identity. 

"Christopher." I was shocked at how foreign his name sounded on my tongue and felt a pang within my soul. Had it really been so long that my tongue had forgotten how to speak his name with surety? 

"Hi," he gave a shy smile. A single hand had raised to rub at his neck as his eyes turned heavenward. I looked up, but I saw nothing but darkness. He must have seen something else though for his wide, dimpled grin, that I knew him for replaced the shy smile. When his eyes returned to me he said, "It's be awhile."

"My Emerald boy," I muttered. I couldn't believe it. I hadn't thought of Christopher in years, so why was he there then? What made him make an out of the blue appearance in my mind?

"I've missed you," he paused for a moment. "We've missed you."

"I've missed you too." 

The corners of his mouth fell and a sad smile, a twisting of the left side of his lips, stole the place of his grin. "You haven't thought of us in a long time. We should be twenty-three, you know, but instead we're stuck in theses teenage bodies." 

Twenty-three? How was it possible that my original characters were twenty-three? My babies, trapped because I had left them to entertain themselves. What kind of a writer does that? 

I blinked, and when I opened my eyes Christopher had aged. He was still clean shaven, but there was a sharpness to his jaw. He wore a pair of cargo pants, and the same tee-shirt as before (but more worn). There was s sturdy pair of boots on his feet and a messenger bag packed with papers across his chest. Twenty-three...I could hardly believe it. 

He reached up, toying with something above him. I saw nothing, but his fingers behaved as if he were rolling a dangling string between them and he was debating on plucking the string from it's root. 

"You got out," he commented, his eyes turned towards the darkness he was playing with.  "The city's a nice place. Your dorm room's cozy."

"I guess," was my intelligent reply. I watched for a bit, as he closed his hand around whatever it was that had him fascinated. I had ask though, about his life. I had an unquenchable thirst to know what happened to him. "What are you up to now days?" 

A smirk came to his lips, it wasn't an expression I was use to seeing on his face. It wasn't one I could ever recall him wearing. He shrugged. "You tell me. You're the author."

But I wasn't his author. Not anymore. I felt disconnected from him...like I no longer had the right to dictate his life. Not that I ever really dictated my characters' lives. For the most part, they worked out their own lives. I merely wrote them down. 

"You know," he said it with such sureness that I couldn't help but believe him. Our eyes locked and I felt a rush of some unnamed force wash over me. Something happened and I was no longer disconnected. I knew exactly what had happened to him during those years of abandonment. I knew exactly where he stood that day.  

"I'm sorry," i spoke. " I really thought you and Kristy would last. It looks like you're doing well though. You're teaching at the Academy, I see. Good job! I'm proud of you. Who's in charge of the Academy now? Is it still Leader Smith?" 

A shake of his head was my answer. His raised hand gave a downward jerk and a single light bulb blazed to life. A fragile looking, beaded chain dangled from it. His hand held the chain lightly, like he was afraid he'd break it. "His daughter is. You remember Tara. She's doing a great job. Erick's gone missing though. They say he's dead. One of the tombs collapsed on him at the excavation site...but you already knew that. You started writing that story. Remember?"

It was my turn to nod. "I remember."

"Skyler and Onna are happy," he went on, watching the single bulb above us, "but they miss you too. We all do."

I couldn't think of anything to say. My gaze turned to the folder in my hands and I heard a sigh leave Christopher's lips.

"Do you remember when you were younger?" he broke the silence. The bulb was flickering, it's light fading like shadows on a summer day. Darting out on occasion to play with the world around it, but always retreating. "Your dad was in Illinois and a storm was shaking the windows of your home. The storm was worsening and your mind was too busy to sleep, so you logged onto that old Gateway desktop and opened up our story. Remember? You finished the book that night. You ended our adventure on Sapphire-Diamond. Our first adventure. You remember how you felt when you typed those last two words?"

I couldn't speak, so I merely nodded. The flickering light was becoming somewhat of a nuisance. I found myself mentally demanding that it to choose between life and death.

"What happened to you? Where did that confidence and pride go to?"

"I don't know," I chocked out, and it hurt to know that what I said was true. Where did it go to? Why was it that whenever I finished a writing I no longer felt pride in it? Why did I feel like there was nothing worth writing about?

"What ever happened to that cardboard box?"

The light flicked off and I jolted awake, eyes snapping open to find that the TV had been shut off. The lights were still on, though. Out of instinct, I glanced at the clock. It was nearly three. If I had cared to look around the room at the time, I probably would have noticed my roommate reading something on her computer. Her headphones would be in, blaring music so loud that the lyrics were as clear as glass to those of us not wishing to hear them. That's what was normally going on at three in our dorm, but my mind was else where.

What did happen to that cardboard box? When did I suddenly decided writing wouldn't be enough and that I needed to push my body and mind past it's limits in order to grab onto the glorious future that everyone else wanted? When did I ever start wanting that future?