My life lived in a series of little tin boxes. Thoughts, puddy, fortunes, dreams, lemon drops, failed romances. Each is there in its spot.
So neatly set aside for that perfect time. On certain walks up specific hills I can viusalize the perfect time and almost make out the shapes of the creatures that inhabit it. They open the boxes as rations or remnants of a life lived but not fully. A full pantry and supplies to survive a 72 hour emergency. It’s all there. Prepared but not always present.
Little tin boxes get put into larger tin boxes and then boxed away in units with doors of corrugated metal. They make a musical sound as they rise and lower. Someoneone, perhaps I, will return to this spot where they are so artfully locked away. Each one holds a treasure. Or, at least, it was when it was put inside.
A bento-box life is lived with so many walled choices unable to see what the chopstick is selecting in the adjacent compartment — bachelor number two or steamed gyoza. Little square rooms in an enormous city, where it is so comforting to curl up and not know what is on the other side of the wall, or to take out a tablet and write the horror that might be there. Then crumple up the paper on which speculation is scribed and box it away for the time being.