Charles is a box.
Admittedly, as boxes go, he is quite impressive, and there is ample room for other boxes to frolic within. Inside, it’s huge, beautifully adorned with antique lamps and gaudy tapestries, with place enough to wander, around and get lost – but still just a big box. He can build models within his mind, but his thinking is too rigid, too structured.
He has a box for memory, a box for language, a box for social etiquette that he can dive into whatever he attends a party. He has a box called explosive thought, where he can experiment with abstract ideas and pretend to think freely with no limit or restriction. But once again, he is simply within the confines of his box. There’s a box for family, which is small; a box for sports which is carefully bound by all the rules and conventions of sportsmanlike conduct. He has a box for dealing with girls, with elders, with kids and with peers. There’s a box for happiness, jealousy, sobriety and grief. A shiny gold-lacquered box of positive encouragement, a dark box with red lights for warning others.
But despite the grand decorations, each box is an exact cube, a perfect square; every dimension measured to the inch and each emotion, expression and thought carefully calculated and analyzed in triplicate.
At the end of the day, a box is still a box.