You all live in boxes.

I live in a box too.

 My box is too small.

But I guess box’s size doesn’t really matter.

It’s still a box.

My box is sometimes dark too.

But I guess brightness doesn’t really matter.

It’s still a box.

These are the boxes we build for ourselves.

Our safety-boxes, where we can hide in.

And when you think that no one is watching you,

there is always a moving, liquid eye there.

Sticking on your figure – sticking on your soul.

Even when you’re alone in your box,

it’s you observing yourself.

And then the box spins around.

What is it going to be?

What are these boxes we’ve built?

Isn’t there anyone starting to wonder,

if that’s the place to be?

A fucking box.

The box(es) they’ve built for you.

The box(es) we’ve built for us.

The box(es) we’ve believed in.

The box(es) we still believe in.

The constant mistrust sticking on the walls,

which won’t rinse out.

I can see around more boxes.

Some of them are even empty.



Even darkness isn’t enough to fill them.

No oxygen left to enter the lungs: total decompression.

A square is a strange shape.

It’s like each side reached an edge limiting the natural flow of each line.

It’s not like a circle, where things flow.

A box is a square.

Ι can still see some boxes there, far away…

Where sweet lights are shimmering.

Figures moving in there: pacing.


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