I live in a box. The walls you ask? Invisible. The size? Infinite or infinitesimal. It is a box I have created, crafted if you will, out of my own psychosomatic will.

I am a pantomime.

What I think becomes what is. In my own box, I am safe, I am understood, I am rational, yet outside my transparent fortress, I am a cliché to be scoffed and dismissed by an unintelligible public. Why am I misunderstood if I am clearly black and white? How do I explain myself and my reason for this box? I cannot speak. I cannot articulate.

I am a pantomime.

My face does not fall, because it has already been painted in a perpetual frown. But the pain exists; it is there in my eyes, as they fill with hot tears of exasperation and helplessness. I have never been able to communicate well with the curious, pitying crowd. I am screaming, yelling for someone to hear, but my words do not leave my invisible box. They remain contained and futile. All I can do is move my hands and hope this will suffice. I will never give up hope that someone will hear me. No, I will never give up hope that someday my elaborate show of gestures will be recognized. I will continue to scream with my mind. They will understand why I live in this invisible box, and one day, maybe, I will take it down, and I will speak.