My fourteen year old daughter took this photo of her old man in one of London’s iconic red telephone boxes.
I do look just a little trapped!
We do it to others; we do it to ourselves mostly.
Put them, us, into boxes of our design.
Labels are for jars, and boxes, well, boxes are the caskets that we will go out in.
Pigeonholing and stereotyping behaviours kill the hope of the different and the unique.
In venturing into blogging , I am trying to think outside of a box I have spent years carefully constructing.
In expressing my creative side, I bury the negative self-thought (and perhaps the thought of others), that tells me that is not what I am, or do.
That final box can wait for now; I have a few more I need to tick…
Ebb Then Flood 