As I am sitting at my desk searching for inspiration, I hear a noise coming from the closet. Like a bootleg copy of Jumanji, I hear a drum beat that no one else hears but me. What is that knocking sound? Nobody hears it, so I ignore it. My first thought is, it must be the neighbors downstairs. I’m not offended because they seem to be tolerant of “More bounce to the ounce,” when it comes from upstairs every now and then. No, it’s not downstairs, it’s the closet. “O boy, I hope it’s not who I think it is.” To assist me in my denial, I ask my kids, you all hear anything? If they don’t hear it, I don’t either. I ain’t tripping. It’s simple, if they don’t hear it, we don’t hear it. I keep it moving.
What seems to bother me is, the more I overlook it, the louder it becomes. The knocking has now become a rattling, shaking noise. It sounds like something is trapped and trying to desperately escape.
It escalates from a knock and rattle to a muffled voice. “Here we go,” I say to myself. I ignore the sound of the voice until it becomes unbearable. I am purposely trying not to give any attention to it, but I can hear words. “Help me please,” the voice says. I still don’t budge from my chair until the voice calls my doggone name.
As soon as my name is called, I remember. This is OLD ME I locked up a few years ago. I remember and know the OLD ME!! The OLD ME knows if he can get me talking, he can negotiate. Very strategically, the OLD ME begins with questions. Why am I in here? What did I do? How long do I have to stay in here? “You know why you’re locked up,” I shout. Ok, I’ve learned my lesson. Can I have another chance? No sir.
You don’t know how to act. You will NEVER know how to act. It’s impossible to take you anywhere. I can’t take you anywhere. I took you to the mall and you overspent. I took you to the grocery store, but you put cookies and pastries in the buggy. You can’t talk on the phones because you get beside yourself. You don’t know discretion. Life is not all run, gun, fun and games. You act like you are allergic to discipline, morals, and moderation. Turn up is your middle name. You are grossly out of control and you know it. The only reason why you are talking nice is because you want out. Therefore, the best place for you is locked up tight in this box in the back of this closet.
The voice in the box says, “We had some good times together didn’t we?” As I smile and reminisce, I catch myself. Hold on man, I’m not falling for that! When was the last time you had a good time? I peek out the hole in this box everyday and I watch you. I see you cry and I watch you battle back and forth. I see your frustration, disappointment, and the side of you that others will never see. Furthermore, I don’t like the way they treat you. I need to get a few people straight for you. I can say what you can’t or don’t want to say. I am here for you Bro! You and I are one. I admit I was a little over the top but OPEN THE BOX, so we can talk.
MISTAKE: I thought about it. I have been a little down haven’t I?
All of us either have a locked box containing the OLD SELF, or you are
still trying to talk THE OLD YOU into the box.
DON’T OPEN THE BOX!!
It’s the DANCE of DUALITY.