I was told to think of a cube in the desert and to describe it.

I was then asked to describe a ladder and its proximity to the cube.

Finally I was told to describe a horse and the distance between the horse, the ladder and the cube.

And this is what I said:

My cube is minuscule in the desert.

It is made of an 8×11 sheet of college ruled paper.

Its corners are not well defined.

It appears it has travelled long and hard journeys alone, withered, but clean.

It sits in the sand, gravel and wind blowing it to and fro rolling back and forth, never resting still.

A long dark wooden ladder lays on its side, very near the paper cube, almost trapping it as the cube bangs against the top bar of the ladder never truly escaping it, merely being pushed by it like two ping pong paddles tossing a ball.

There is a horse, a fierce horse galloping in the distance toward the ladder and the cube with fire in its eyes and a mane as long as its strong back and it doesn’t see the ladder and it can’t make out the cube and when it is close enough inevitably it will trip over the ladder and break its legs, face landing on the cube crushing it its energy and ferociousness alone killing them both.

I was told that this is how I see myself.

The cube is me.

I feel small in the entire world.

I’m not made of steel or gold, just paper, flightly, flimsy, easily destroyable paper.

Paper that does not have a place in the desert. Paper that has been abused and crushed many times but somehow, some way, has kept itself from looking as dirty as it truly is.

I am fragile and easily blown apart and always ready to leave it behind.

The ladder is my friends and family, so close but mostly restrictive. I can only go so far because they block my efforts, hard wood protecting the soft wood from really getting hurt but this strategy will back fire soon when he comes along.

My horse.

My horse is my lover, the one.

And my family and friends are between me and him.

There expectations, their trapping me, will prevent us from being together. They live through me and I look up to them and eventually the strength of him will be worn down and tripped up and he will die trying to get to me, if he ever was trying because he couldn’t see us in his way almost like the spider web of the black widow.

He is tall, and dark, and mighty and dangerous and is destroyed by a family of vultures in the form of a wooden ladder and suffocates the paper, the insecure soul in me while  breaking his leg in the trap, destined for sure death.

This is how I feel. That no matter who I fall in love with, no matter how glorious he once was, when he comes my way his life will end.

This process is called being cubed.

I can not say I am surprised by my results.