Sunsets turn into sunrises, and the world turns. One day fades into another and—at times—they seem endless, for better or worse. Days become months, become years. Our patterns continue. Our routines persist. And so many days pass without our taking account of them.

But they run out, eventually. We only have one go at this. We learn the rules and our roles; play them and play by them because it’s what we know, because it’s safe.

We’re given this puzzle box at birth and believe it’s like a Rubik’s Cube. We spend our lives trying to find suitable patterns in the movement of its columns and rows, arranging the colors in neat faces. It’s tricky, but it is far from impossible. Sometimes, when we need a clue, we watch others twist and shift theirs. Other times, we spin randomly, hoping we’ll find the right combination to slide things into place.

The arrangement we work towards is all six sides, solidly its own color. Those are the rules. But is it the only way? Some people might prefer their faces more colorful, and they find their own patterns. They twist and arrange things in ways that look foreign, maybe even messy, to most. But they are satisfied with the colors arranged in a way that speaks to them.

But what if the puzzle isn’t a Rubik’s Cube at all? What if the point isn’t to arrange the colors, but to open the box? What if—after spending half a lifetime twisting and turning and trying to find satisfaction with the patterns we see others complete, we come up short? Maybe if it’s a far more complex puzzle, whose true solution is getting it all right only to realize it’s wrong or getting it wrong in all the possible ways?

Six colors. Six sides. But what if there’s more? What if we’ve learned the wrong rules because we thought it was the only way to play? What’s inside the box?

Rules and roles have their place. They give us a sense of order. They aren’t always easy to follow, especially when something inside us says we aren’t cut out to follow the same patterns as everyone else. There is risk in trying to play the game differently, working outside those rules and roles. It’s possible we find the standard way of doing things is the only way to keep the puzzle from breaking. It’s also possible this is where our greatest lessons lie.

What if we unfolded it; pulled it apart instead of twisting the sides? Would we find answers to questions we didn’t know we had, a key to a different life? Would we find another puzzle? Or would we find only a broken toy? If nothing else, we’d find those days we tried—those days we cracked it open—stand out. We could account for them.

We didn’t allow the sunset to become another sunrise without trying something different.

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