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We fit into boxes. We are labeled “girl” or “boy.” We are then defined as “Asian,” “white,” “black,” “Christian,” “Jewish,” and “Muslim.” If the name game goes further, we are labeled “student,” “actor,” “musician,” “athlete,” or “writer.”
We fit into boxes as cardboard folds on move-in day. We fit into boxes like pencils hovering over an identity information brief on a standardized test. We avoid the complexity and ambiguity of “all of the above” at all costs, our pens tracing an indefinite check mark when we are unsure of ourselves.
We use boxes to tell the world who we are. We make life a little easier for our friends, parents, and acquaintances. The answer to the question, “describe me in three words” is never coy and elusive when we have our boxes to rely on.
The truth is, we are too big for boxes. We cannot function when our imaginations run rampant, and we are reduced to a few meager words in an Instagram bio. We wake up gods and goddesses some days. We wake up as ghosts and warriors other days. We wake up poets most days. We wake up as artists everyday.
We exist as lovers and creators everyday, destroying our paths as gusts of wind and faint exhalations. We rise from ashes in the meantime.