Words are boxes and each and every one of us paints them with colours no one else sees. The more words we learn the more we think we live in a spacious house with a garden, but still they limit us, still we are scared to go out sometimes. Some people, like women in chauvinistic cultures, live in a world of 2000 words or less. Some may think it's cosy in there, since you wouldn't have much to clean or fix like a small flat downtown, but most are trapped in a very small cage, with no shelves to put their worldly memories on. Their memories are hanging in the air, which could as well be nice.
I have boxes inside boxes, words inside words, and despite the fact that I have many thousands of boxes, the way they are intricately piled makes any abstract wind a big threat. Would they fit the physical idea I try to convey? Mostly they don't and it's partly my fault.
I sometimes make new boxes euphorically, compulsively, to later find out that I'm only building my own dungeon, what doesn't stop me from decorating it with care. But after spending so much time trying to fit our different concepts inside the same boxes I decided to pretend for a few moments I live in one box only, and it feels good. It made me make fewer boxes and also open them to free the content. Right now, as I finish this writing, I'm walking into a very tiny box, and all things in life have no name.