The little black box is in the corner of every room. Like laundry, dirty memories are stored in there for the final implosion. People waltz right through it, tripping over air, confused by their two feet catching. He waits for the next entry each day, singling out a sentence, an action, a hand not meeting his. Affection and lost love is worthy. It is emptied sporadically. Sometimes every week, sometimes every month, sometimes every year. It normally involves a partner, his effort not reciprocated leaves a belly feeling of betrayal.
Tonight a building rage born out of anxiety has taken hold. His eyes are never off the little black box, smeared in fingerprints. He’ll need some music, a drum set used for with a single stick; one slow tap backing up the soul of a woman’s pain. Her voice enters him into a trance, opening a photo album of bad moments. The song is placed into the little black box knowing the next time it is played, he’ll think of the pain he suffered. Pain is the most common product of the memory.
The little black box would be a rainy disco. At times he will go searching in it for hatred to use as an injection of motivation to rise again. He may find remorse instead, a picture of the alternative to running. The little black box will deceive him. His ultimatums shouldn’t have been forwarded, he never should have listened to a strand of chemical advice. He shouldn’t have waited until the little black box was full before pouring its contents before her feet.
His main wish was that the little black box was grey, evolving to white one day. His main wish was to find a little white box packed with pride, self-discovery and just decisions. Tonight the entry is faded hope, of repetitive mistakes, of a promise ring leaving its natural groove. A faded gift melting in the heat of an argument. Twitching, his hand shakes, and his phone battery at 1% expressive of the energy he had left. The little black box would be delved into again, another point when a partnership ended to marry the other times.
Home lost its safety. His bed became irritating, his purpose in life dirtied. The little black box opened its jaws and bellowed out loneliness. The waiter at a family meal of collective couples looks solemnly at the man staring at the corner, embarrassed by his singularity and the reality of his bed being cold, his hand flapping by his side, borrowing time with his mother to watch a blockbuster. Friends who’ve chosen family over career post photos of the rewards of their lives. Friends who’ve chosen career over family post photos of the rewards of their lives. The little black box is bursting with times he had a family, and times he had the rewards of a potential career. Each opportunity stricken from reality, severed with sharp choices.
The girl leaves riding the reward of her career home. The bitter air passes through the door. He glances away from the little black box to a pink flower light suspended on a windowsill. A time when he merged creativity with love, a plunge into the romance which was dying for the right one. His hopes for the future tarnished, saved only by the ambition to meet another female with a little black box.
They’d both stare into corners, gripping each other’s’ hands, secure in company. They’d both be beyond revival, lost in their stares. The doctors would offer packets of stability, an opportunity to destroy the little black box, they’d become fearful and protective. Their evidence to present at the pearly white gates. They’d return home and inhale death, shovel packets of death into their lives, knowing that their little black boxes needed feeding. The cycle would continue. But their hands would never break from each other’s. They were connected by their pain and suffering. A bond which couldn’t be broken. A smile of sadness. Their little black boxes are the rewards of their lives. It is the proud reward of his life.