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Coups de cœur Cultura
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Where do I begin? Even today, as I look back over my life, I cannot pinpoint an exact day when I got trapped in the box, or the day I realized I was trapped, nor what box was it—number one, five, seven—I hadn't started counting. Somehow, I found myself going from box to box—whether I stepped in, jumped in, stumbled in or was shoved in, I was there—in darkness, feeling alone, sad, angry and guilty. I was unsure of what I could have done differently, what I should have said, done, revealed, or exposed. There were moments when I knew I was no longer myself, but a robot, some fabrication of what I used to be, or at least what I knew in my heart I truly was. I acted on the commands I heard from outside of myself, most times unaware of where those sounds originated and why I heard them, and why they were so faint and difficult to really comprehend. I think the boxes gradually surrounded me, little by little, and before I knew it I was crying before the Lord, "Please help me; I can't stand it anymore, I want out!" I loved, I hated, I regretted, I learned, I grew.
