message in a box

No message in a bottle
Delivery best suited for this recycled box
As recycled thoughts collect dust in this prison called purpose
Yes, purpose can seem like a prison
Confined to the dreams of who I thought I would be at 30

Not quite
More like one hundred and ninety-eight days and lots of seconds and counting
Whew! That’s one large hour glass right there
And I feel every particle of sand trickle down though that pinch point of hope
Hope that I would be a tad bit farther along in the image of what I drew myself to be

Yes, I kinda like to draw
Draw conclusions, apartments
Ya know, the typical stuff
But even when I erase parts of the drawing, the residue of what’s erased faintly remains
To remind me that my mistakes aren’t meant to be forgotten, but to learn from

So here I am at 29 and a half
Contemplating
Career. Purpose.
Are they the same?
I don’t know.
But it would be cool if it was
Right? Like…
Wake up (Draw)
Sit Down (Draw)
Computer on (Draw)
Floor Plan (Draw)

Ahhh! This melody is drawing me back to childhood memories
I reach in the swimming pool of broken Crayola crayons
The smell is nostalgic
That colored wax and crinkled loose leaf paper

In the box
Disheveled crayons
Paper barley holding on
In front of me:
A pallet of infinite options
I reach for blue
My favorite color
The Crayon collides with paper
Four orthogonal lines connect
Masterpiece of minimalism
A young Lex envisions what this box may become
Is it a container? A boundary? A book? A floor plan?
Or maybe
It’s just a square

I tell myself
Keep creating young one
Your Crayola artist career has just begun!
You are where you need to be
And remember:
Broken crayons still color
And sometimes dreams do come true
It’s what you make of what’s in front of you