Written by Mutt Rousseau
NOLA 2021 | Artwork by Eileen Kineke
He lives a very finely balanced lifestyle, defined by the concentrated focus demanded by his chosen profession—he’s a cardboard box—and the intervals between assignments when he can surrender himself to being carefree and whimsical.
It’s a necessary balance. Without his work, his focus would be spread out rather than concentrated, and there wouldn’t be the same opportunity to fully indulge his whims; and without his whimsy, his cares would creep in and demand his focus, and there might not be enough focus leftover for his work.
One day he’s improperly packed, by no fault of his own, and when he’s unpacked the unpacker unintentionally knocks the whim out of him. He doubles over, trying to contain himself, but already he’s spread out in such a way that he knows his professional life is over.
He longs for the days when he was a piece of paper, before he was recycled, before he was fashioned into a cardboard box. When he was a piece of paper, everything was lighter, and he could drift for days without ever worrying about balance. Everything carries more weight when you’re cardboard. One day you’re packed up, and the next day you’re packed off.

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Helmut “Mutt” Rousseau was separated from his parents at a young age, and raised by Basset Hounds. Discovered in Banff National Park and reunited with his parents, Mutt grew from a feral child into a semi-literate adult. He lives and writes in Berlin, Ontario.
