Cuboids

Here I am, sitting inside a cuboid. The cuboid has yellow walls with brown openings here and there. A part of it is open to the outside. The yellow cuboid, along with many other cuboids - larger, smaller, red, white, yellow - is part of another larger cuboid. This larger cuboid sticks vertically out of the ground. There are other such cuboids near it, too, that stick out of the ground. Sometimes, they're close together, and share walls. Sometimes, they stand on their own, surrounded by a rectangle each.

Each of these large cuboids has people in it. My own cuboid has at present - me, my mother, and some members of my landlord's family. My neighbouring cuboid has an old couple in it. I wonder what the silver-haired old man is doing right now. He can't know that, across a wall and a few metres above him, a young girl is thinking of him. His wife is probably keeping him company inside his little cuboid. On the other side of me is the set of cuboids with the young couple that's always arguing. They argue for hours, and then sometimes, he hits her, and then there's silence. People in all the nearby cuboids can hear them as they go on and on and on.

This city is filled with cuboids of all shapes and sizes. They stick out of the ground like plants at a monstrous farm - plants filled with writhing people.

We humans have made a lifestyle out of living in cuboids. We never stop to think of the life we had before cuboids came along. When the surroundings were open and natural, when there were no straight lines, and all was the curvy beauty of Nature. We've forgotten what that felt like. Cuboids form our Nature now.

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