A Gray
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Cardboard. That basic material that protects our Amazon deliveries and cereal boxes. Have you ever stopped to think about what happens to cardboard after it's served its purpose? Recycling, you'd think, right? Yes, of course. But. But but but.
Let's start with the basics. Recycling cardboard is like getting a Dundie Award for Participation. You're not exactly saving the world, but hey, at least you're trying. You break down the box, you toss it in the bin, and you feel a little spark of virtue. But then you remember that time your neighbor threw a greasy pizza box in the recycling bin, and now the whole batch is contaminated. This is why we can't have nice things.
Recycling, much like Jim's pranks on Dwight, is a delicate balance. Do it right, and you're a hero. Do it wrong, and you're the guy who put a stapler in Jell-O. And let's be real, most of us are the stapler-in-Jell-O guy when it comes to recycling.
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Recycling cardboard is, at its core, an act of hope. It is a small but defiant gesture against the tide of waste that threatens to engulf our planet. When you break down that Amazon box, fold it neatly, and place it in the recycling bin, you are participating in a ritual that transcends the individual. You are saying, “This is not the end. This material, this vessel of utility, shall live again.” It is a quiet act of faith in the circular economy, a belief that what has been used can be reborn.
The ancient Egyptians believed in the afterlife, in the preservation of the body for its journey into eternity. The cardboard box, in its own way, undergoes a similar process. It is collected, processed, pulped, and reborn as something new.
But this process is not without its flaws. Contamination, inefficiency, and human error - much like the soul's journey through the Duat - means that the recycling process is fraught with peril.
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Now, let us turn our gaze to ancient Rome, where philosophers like Seneca and Marcus Aurelius pondered the nature of existence, impermanence, and the art of living a virtuous life. The Stoics, in particular, would have found much to admire in the humble cardboard box. For what is cardboard, if not a metaphor for the transient nature of material things?
Basically, Stoics were the original “Keep Calm and Carry On” crowd, like Dwight Schrute. You can imagine Dwight saying something like this: “A box is but a fleeting vessel. Its purpose is to serve, then to return to the earth. Just like me.”
Here's the thing: the ancient Romans would've loved cardboard. They were all about efficiency, infrastructure, and making stuff last. Aqueducts? Check. Roads? Check. Cardboard recycling? Okay, maybe not. But if they'd had it, you know they would've turned it into an empire-wide system. Meanwhile, we can't even figure out if our pizza boxes are recyclable. This is why we can't have nice things.
Consider this: a cardboard box is strong, yet fragile. It can carry great weight, yet it is easily crushed. It is useful, yet disposable. In this, it mirrors the Stoic belief that all material possessions are ultimately ephemeral. Marcus Aurelius, in his Meditations, wrote, “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” Similarly, a cardboard box could be recycled or discarded at any moment. Its existence is fleeting, its purpose ever-changing.
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It begins life as a simple sheet of corrugated fiberboard - unassuming and raw. Through the alchemy of industry, it is folded, glued and printed into its proper form. Then it carries goods across continents, then it is broken down, pulped and reshaped, perhaps into a cereal box or a moving carton.
What's the one problem with cardboard? Imagine, if you will, a Colosseum made entirely of cardboard. Not the flimsy, single-ply stuff, but the heavy-duty, double-walled corrugated kind. Maybe you have the plebeians sitting in the upper tiers, their seats made of recycled cereal boxes. Then the patricians in the lower levels with their thrones crafted from the finest Amazon Prime packaging. Point is, what happens when it rains?
The Cardboard Colosseum, for all its grandeur, is vulnerable to water.