There once was a man who had a box.

When the man pressed buttons on the box, Different patterns of light would flash, and different sounds would play.  Sometimes lovely, sometimes not so much.

When the man would have to do something unpleasant, the box would make the task seem less unpleasant. Of course, if the task was present the man would never be able to tell, distracted as he was by the box.

Time passed, and the man started to spend more time with the box. There were certain patterns of lights that made him feel happy;  some patterns made him feel righteously angry, or excited, or sad. There were some that made him feel important when he was feeling unimportant. Soon, he was going to the box any time he felt feelings he didn’t want to feel, and the box fixed his feelings – or at least made him lose the feeling in the cascade of lights and sounds.

When the man woke up in the morning, his eyes would barely be open before he was pressing the button on the box. Whatever lights the box flashed would change his day.

Sometimes the box would light with cheerful greens and blues,  in a way that made him feel excited, happy, or in control.

Sometimes the box would glow with a sickly paranoid yellow, and the man would feel anxious and suspicious of the people around him.

Sometimes the box would flash glittering lights like the shining of gold, and the man would feel very poor, and would long for more possessions.

Sometimes, in a whole day of lovely lights and sounds, the box would play a brief, angry, hurtful noise, and even though the rest of the day the box played beautiful sounds, that one hurtful noise stayed with the man, and colored the rest of his day. Somehow, that one brief burst overwhelmed thousands of wonderful lights and sounds. On these days, the man felt sad for long periods of time, and would have to put in extra time on the box to feel less sad.

Soon the box was his closest companion. He brought the box with him in the car, because the car was too quit and lonely. He’d poke at the buttons on the box at stop lights, or on boring stretches of roads. He’d carry the box on errands, and the soothing sounds coming from the box would make the shopping more bearable. The man would bring the box to work with him.

The man used to paint paintings, but when he pressed the button on the box, he felt strangely like he felt when he painted. He created the colors. It was almost as good, and didn’t make a mess.

The man was soon spending most of his time with his box. He’d spend hours staring at the box. He would eat while playing with the box. Most of his friends had boxes, too, so when they went out to eat together, the boxes would never be far from them.

 The man would go to wonderful shows and see beautiful things with his friends, but the boxes were somehow more beautiful. It didn’t matter what was going on the the background, the man always could find something to do with the box that would amuse and delight his friends.

The box become a part of him.  The man loved the box. He loved the box, and he felt as if the box loved him back. Even when the box hurt him, the box would always seem quite repentant and play lovely, apologetic colors and patterns, making the man forget the hurt feelings. The box would promise never to hurt him again, and it seemed to the man that every time it hurt him was the last time.

Soon the man found that if he spent more time with the box, nicer patterns would play on the lights, and sweeter sounds should come from the speakers. If he neglected the box, the box would invariably punish him with sharp, rasping noises and upsetting colors.  The man couldn’t let this happen because the box had become to precious to him. He started checking his box every few minutes, in order to keep the box happy with him. He started declining time with those he loved so he could have more time with the box. This of course made him feel lonely, but the box played friendly sounds that soothed this feeling away.

The man bought his children boxes, because he knew they would love them as he did, and it kept them from distracting him from his box.

Everyone he knew had a box. Some friends even had three or four boxes. It was abnormal and antisocial not to have a box. A box gave people purpose, and made them look important – A man standing on the sidewalk doing nothing in particular was suspicious; a man standing on the sidewalk pressing buttons on his box was commonplace.

But one day, the box broke. When the man woke up and pressed the button, nothing happened.

The man felt bored and anxious without the noises and interaction.

The world seemed painfully boring and grey without the blinking lights.

The man rushed to a box store, and bought a shiny new box. He took it out of its packaging and pressed the button…immediately the tightness in his stomach dissipated.  He didn’t feel quite so sad.

The man had his box.
The box had him.