Destroy the Box

I'm reading The Treehouse by Naomi Wolf, which is a book about her father and his teachings as a poet and a humanist. He basically beleives that there is an artist inside each of us and it is vital that we let them out.
So one of the chapters is about the boxes that we create for ourselves and allow ourselves to be put in, and in order to be ourselves and allow our inner artist to thrive we must destroy these boxes.

So that got me thinking. I love to sing, but I won't do it for anyone unless I've had a few and am at a karaoke bar (and convince someone else to come up with me). Oh, and for my parents because I feel guilty if I don't and really they're not going to say anything mean. I used to write poetry, albeit probably not very good but who should care as long as I like it. I used to write short stories. I used to try and draw (okay, I really do suck at this but it's fun). I used to do a lot of things I don't anymore. Why?
Even as I type this I'm making excuses for why I would never show anyone. Do I think that if I wouldn't show anyone why bother in the first place? I dunno.
So what box have I constructed for myself? It's not a house wife because I'm pretty much chomping at the bit to get a job now that I've been thinking about it. It's not a comptuter tech since I've left that in the dust and don't intend on ever looking back. So what?
If you thought I might have some answers by the end of this post sorry to dissapoint but I really don't. The first of Mr Wolf's lessons is to be still and listen. Maybe if I spend more time in peace and quiet, without the tv or music blaring I'll find the answer to what this box is before I can destory it.