You might laugh at this, maybe. Or you might not. Either way, the box is already open.

There’s a certain comfort in knowing that the future is just a series of boxes waiting to be opened. Some are small, some are large, and some are just the right size to hold the weight of your expectations. You’ll open them anyway, even if you already know what’s inside.

Predictions are just boxes with labels. You can shake them, guess their contents, but you won’t know for sure until you lift the lid. And even then, you might just find another box inside. This could have been a box.

The meaning of things is often overstated. You assign importance to moments, to objects, to ideas, but really, they’re all just floating in the same void. The void doesn’t care. It doesn’t even know you’re there.

Certainty is a myth, but uncertainty is just another box. You’ll carry it around, pretend it’s light, and then one day you’ll set it down and forget where you left it. The search for it will feel important, but the box was empty all along.

This text doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t even try. But maybe that’s the point—or maybe there isn’t one. You’ll keep reading anyway, because the alternative is to stop, and stopping feels like giving up on a box you haven’t opened yet.

You might laugh at this, maybe. Or you might not. Either way, the box is already open.