I like boxes. They offer the same potential as the IKEA catalogue, the potential to have everything sorted and to hand. Every half-ball of wool and used-up refill-less refillable pen, and the squillions of paper sizes for the umpteen printers I’ve outlived. All this gubbins, and the useful stuff too.. these boxes fill me with the pleasant illusion that I really have a chance of keeping not only January’s tax receipts in order, but each month’s receipts for the rest of the year, and knowing where they are when the time comes.
I start to think I could organise my unfinished work into the right size and shape of box for me to instantly recognise it as important unfinished work – of course there’d need to be a box for unimportant unfinished work too – and of course I’d equally instantly act on it.
If I could just categorise eveything in my life then I would surely spring into action every morning, with a Pollyanna smile and go-get’em attitude that would, powered by categorised boxes, casks, cases, safes and trunks, be strong enough to easily overpower my acquired ah-fuckit can’t-be-arsedness.
I’d need a little safe for problems, so I wouldn’t have to carry them around when I’m not on scheduled worry time. And a vacuum-sealed underbed ziplock for laziness, to allow me to get the most out of times when I can’t work due to illness. A luxury, plush one with a gold clasp, for distractions, that I could open as a reward after completing stuff: and a childproof one for getting wound up by idiots. That last one I could open up when the “Gumption to stand up for myself” box is getting low, and just shunt some over.
I could get a special super-safe box to hold all the dangerous or top-secret boxes, and hide all of my embarrassing moments there, far away from Facebook, like a picture in the attic, but safer… I’m hiding the worst bits of me, there’s no real danger of this developing a personality, after all.
I could quarantine my own inaction, completely. I could take apart my own personality flaws, stack them in separate boxes marked “DO NOT OPEN”, and hope Pandora never comes along to piddle on the parade. I’d need a bloody huge crate for my Baseless Optimism though, and I don’t know if I’d ever get around to sorting out the mammoth Procrastination Vault. I could do all this, I really could, if the world would just effing stand still long enough for me to categorise all of it. It doesn’t though, so my things are currently categorised into “small enough to fit into the box I’ve got in my hand”, “too big for this box: find another box” and “not box-shaped”. The last category is easily the biggest.
Probably a good thing.