A Passage on Boxes

Daryl loves boxes. He’s loved boxes since he was little. And not just any kinds of boxes. “A box is only a box if it’s cube-shaped. A square on all sides. Rectangles are a joke,” is what he always says. He keeps a large stock of empty (unless you count the boxes inside them) boxes in his basement which is, coincidentally, shaped like a box. It doesn’t help that his house is a box either. It always sucks when you’re over at his place and it starts to rain. Where did he find a box-shaped house, you ask? Well, he designed and built it himself. He’s very rich, you know. Companies pay him a lot for his ideas. He’s great at thinking outside the box.

However, working as a tech consultant for IT companies was not what he originally wanted. His dream was to be a boxer, which was why he coerced me into joining the boxing club together with him back in university. Unfortunately, he didn’t make it very far. He had a knack for losing whenever a match was held in a non box-shaped building. To be honest, round gloves never really worked for him and I don’t think the federation would have allowed boxed ones. Oh well. At least he managed to overcome the failure and succeed down a different path. He’s as versatile as a foldable box. Have you heard about that brand new A**le gadget coming out soon? The iBox? He’s the one who came up with it.

Every morning his wife prepares a boxed lunch for him to bring to work. And I don’t mean those typical Japanese bento ones. It is literally a cubic slab of painted aluminium with a hollow to contain food. Of all his wife’s dishes, his favourite is rice with pork and omelette eggs diced (of course) into cubes. Sometimes I wonder if his brain (or his stomach) is shaped like a box. Well, if it has a lid that can be opened, that would explain how he gets all his brilliant ideas. Funnily enough, he can’t stand Rubik’s cubes. It’s like he’s allergic to the sound or sight of someone twisting one of them around. Once, his son brought a couple of schoolmates over and one of them started fiddling with a Rubik’s cube in the house. BAM! They rushed into Daryl’s room, only to find him collapsed beneath his desk, twitching. Fortunately, he recovered.

At this point you must be wondering what the heck you’re reading and why anybody would waste their time writing something nonsensical like this. Well, I’ll have you know that I didn’t make Daryl up. He is very much real, thank you. And there’s probably a Daryl somewhere near you too. I’m writing this because despite his amazing talent and his countless contributions to society, no one really knows who he is. No one really recognises them for what they do. Someone bigger or richer always takes the credit. And honestly, Daryl doesn’t care. It’s more than enough for him to be able to live comfortably with his family. That’s why someone who does care needs to write his story for him. So that at the very least, even if not plastered on the golden annals of humanity’s finest, his name will be carved in a corner of the cornerstone of our future. To perhaps be someday found, read and discovered.


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