2:30am

Tears drip down,

Inside an empty cardboard box.

Unseen. Unheard.

Except when they seep out,

Occasionally,

Having found a fissure at the lowest point.

As water always does.

The box isn’t really empty,

Rather it’s the echo

Between the six walls

Of mind, heart, body, soul, eyes, skin,

And pebbles of grief, loss, anger and disappointment,

Hopes, assumptions, expectations, beliefs,

Clanging

When stirred.

Tears being a metaphor,

Like all words,

For what is seen and heard and felt and thought.

Real and invented stories.

The box one’s mind.

Or head.

Or heart.

Or nothing,

As it is - and isn’t,

Empty.

One day the box WILL need to be truly emptied,

The rocks removed and ground to dust,

And it recycled one more time.

Reincarnation,

To keep learning and living,

Until enlightenment comes,

Which could also mean finally becoming dust as well,

Or light,

Or evaporating into a warm and cozy nothingness.

(I’d recommend getting a better night’s sleep next time.)