Little Boxes

I'm afraid of a lot of things.
Like spiders.

Moldy food. 
Not drinking enough water.
Small talk. 
Dirty kitchens.

You know, normal fears.

But there is one thing that scares me more than all these things combined: being stuck in a box. Not a literal box (though that sounds a little freaky too), but a figurative one--one that the world makes for me and I (accidentally) submissively enter.
forever. 

Boxes.
Cookie cutters.
Means of conforming. 
Sameness.

Those are other normal fears, right?

Because I think we all want to be different in some way--I mean, come on. If trillions of individual snowflakes are all different, there has to be something unique about each of us. Something preciously distinct. I'm guessing people don't want to get lost in the crowd, and I am especially terrified of losing myself and whatever potentially makes me...offbeat if I get pushed into a box that looks just like everyone else's box.

PAUSE ALL THE THINGS RIGHT NOW AND LISTEN TO THIS SONG.   Little Boxes

By Malvina Reynolds/Pete Seeger, it pretty much sums up this fear of a world of sameness.
And maybe I'm not doing a great job right now, because after all..
-I did graduate high school.
-I am going to a university.
-I served a mission for my church (which is pretty typical for Mormons)
-I do want to get married and have family (...someday...)

But I just don't want to live in a box. 

Because breakdowns and dreams and growth and travel and change and discovery don't live in a box.

Those are the things that give life more meaning. Meaning beyond shallow accomplishments and superficial relationships. Meaning derived from passion. Meaning derived from diversity.
#fighttheboxsystem

And maybe this isn't exactly the same, but a poem by Dylan Thomas called "Do not go gentle into that good night" came to me while thinking about boxes.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not do quietly into that colored box. 
Because they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.