What is the Box?

What is the box?  We must define it in order to know how to think outside of it.  This box has multiple compartments.  Later on I may discuss the other compartments.  Right now, my biggest compartment is fear.  Specifically, the fear of . . . not sounding profound.  Let me explain.
Imagine my reaction when I overheard a boy in my newspaper class say the following:

"Audzey is brilliant.  When she opens her mouth, gold doubloons spew forth.  She vomits wisdom.” 

Initially, I was flattered, of course.  However, the comment also constrained me to a box.  Why?  Because when I opened my mouth to compliment him in return, I stopped myself and thought, “No, I can’t say that; the words I had in mind weren’t profound enough to live up to his expectations.”  So I kept silent.  But I should have known better.  Any time I bite back a sincere, heartfelt comment, I block my ability to think outside the box. 

Similarly, my drive for perfection makes me feel that I can’t share my writing with anyone unless my writing is filled with anecdotes, metaphors, big words, and pearls of wisdom.  But in order to unlock my purest creativity, I must let go of that.  Otherwise, all my scribbles and random bursts of pure thought and expression will never be deemed worthy to see the light of day.    

Hmm, I'll bet that sounded confusing.  Some of you may be thinking, “If you feel driven to sound profound, isn’t that a good thing?  Don’t you have to think outside the box in order to be profound?”  No, actually.
I have another experience to share that will illustrate this point:

In my sophomore year (I’m now a senior), I was determined to win the school poetry contest.  I had a brilliant idea to write a poem about a shoe who comes alive and rebels against its owner.  Sounds cool, right?  Well, it was, until my desire to be profound got in the way.  I felt that the poem had to rhyme, it had to have meter, it had to be long, and it had to be flowery. 

After a long and painstaking process, I showed the poem to my Mom.  The first words out of her mouth were, “I don’t like it.”  She continued on to say, “You’re putting on airs, you make no sense, you’re confusing, and your rhyming is trite.  You’re terrible at narratives, so you should turn it into a first-person monologue; that’s what you're good at.  Drop the rhyme, drop the meter.  Start over.  Nothing about this poem has the excitement, simplicity, voice, and attitude that you expressed when first told me your idea.”

Yes, I was deflated, but I took her suggestions.  And guess what?  I won first place in the contest because I decided to be myself.  That, my friends, is the secret to thinking outside the box.  If we think we need to fit some kind of established pattern (whether it be a stereotype, perception, or assumption), then we try to mold our souls into the kind of straight, flat, boring shape that can fit inside a box—a box complete with a label.  But who needs a label?  True souls come in unique sizes. 
(Did that metaphor make sense?  Anyone?)

Compare my original poem to my final poem:

#1 The Living Shoe

Lightning leapt the skies to pulverize a shoe upon the back-porch stairs.

But not a mark nor lingering spark remained—the shoe was all still there.

Though deep with in its leather skin, a new awareness lined its frame.

From toe to heel it could think and feel.  Its very sole was not the same.

But the shoe was seized—so cruelly squeezed!—and placed upon a foot that day.

Each spring, each jump, with each new thump, the shoe in silence longed to say:

“Oh constant strain, oh sandwiched pain—a buffer twixt bare floor and feet!

Oh rhythmic pound, each second bound to kiss the filth of ground and street.”

            “Oh how absurd, this undeserved invasion of my private space!

Would you feel shock to have a sock inserted in your face?!”

“I will not bend to this sorry end!  I’ll fight this fate with all I’ve got.

Let this harsh oppression give me obsession to integrate a vengeful plot.”

At noon its chance came all too soon—the man departed on his jog.

Ten minutes out, his luck ran out and left him fleeing from a dog.

The gloating shoe found strength anew and with a flourish came untied.

The man soon tripped, his heartbeat skipped as head and sidewalk did collide.

The shoe turned smug . . . then felt a tug—the dog had seized its chosen prize.

It wrenched it’s treat from off the feet, much to the frightened shoe’s surprise.

Left to its plunder, the dog tore asunder and chewed the shoe—quite unashamed

and with lightning speed—for Lightning indeed was what the dog was truly named.

Thus lightning’s vice indeed struck twice!  And more than this I cannot tell.

Every dog has his day, and dare I say, that goes for shoes as well.

Now compare to my final version

#2 Consider the Shoe

Call me Lefty.

I’m the left tennis shoe on your foot.

Yoo hoo!  Down here.  Could you please lend an ear?

It’s quite a hard life when I’m just kissing dirt.

But I am a shoe, and a shoe will be true whatever you do.

But for now, let’s take a look at what I do.

And kid, I don’t mind telling you,

you’re such a heel! 

How would you feel to have such weight upon your sole?

Downtrodden.  Forgotten.  And having no say

in where you are taken and where you are going— 

day . . . after day . . . after day

(as with each passing moment your groove is worn away).

But I’m still a shoe . . . and a shoe will stay true . . .whatever you do.

So, I’m here tied in knots with a sock in my face.

Could you spare just a moment to maybe give me some thanks?

I’m a shield to your heel, and I yield to your will.

I’m your true, best support.  I’m your runner!  Your skipper!

So why, when you want comfort, am I traded for a slipper?!

A Donald Duck slipper?  Dare I say, what a quack!

Do you want me for your enemy?  You’d better think about that.

Ever thought of what would happen if I went on strike?

Yeah, in your math class in front of that cute boy you like?

I could, as you know, simply loosen my laces,

trip you up, and catapult you down the nearest staircases!

Ha, ha!  I’m a shoe, but I’m done being true! 

Now at last I’ll prevail!  The time has come to rebel.

Well . . . I would, except . . . that right shoe . . . .

Aw, shoot, she is kind of cute.

And how could I quit when we make a perfect fit?

So thus I remain:  I am a shoe.  And I will stay true whatever you do.

See how I thrive when faced with constructive criticism?