She lives outside the box. She's imaginative. She crossed her boundaries and went over the lines by inches and miles and millimeters that are nothing to her now. She goes the extra mile and when there are no more miles to run, she creates her own. She goes past the ordinary. She is the extraordinary.
She lives outside the box. As seasons change, and the clouds move past, and the leaves fall in a tender trace of movement, and time streams by and people die, she remain unchanged. She remains the same. Like she doesn’t exist; like a ghost that doesn’t age. Or so she thinks.
She lives outside the box. And people don’t know this but it’s cold out. And lonely. No blankets. No fur coats. No tents or sleeping bags. Just herself and her imagination. And for what can it be put to use other than trying to imagine you’re in a different world? Sad to say, the cold was killing her.
She lives outside the box. When she removed the ropes and the belts of the box she was confined in, the world was bigger and she was free to roam the depths and ups of the world she come to call a much beautiful version. But no matter where she looked, no matter how hard she looked, there was nobody else. Today is her 1003th day out in the cold, 1003th day of regret, 1003th day and she doesn’t think she can take another. She shivers with every feeling of remorse. She grows numb with every strike of pain. And to think that she could have easily opened the door when she could have, but she just had to be hard-headed. Bigger doesn’t mean better. Bigger means lonelier.
She lives outside the box. But all she honestly wants is to go back inside. She is miserable. She's a child with an old woman's scars, the gentlest romanticist hiding within a shell of hard cynicism.