The Tale of the Trapped

I’ve been feeling like I’ve been trapped in a really bad place lately, and time feels more like a jail, cruel and unforgiving. I see how juxtaposed the world outside of the bars and mine. It’s ironic how some pieces of invisible metals could extract the good of the outside world and leave me what of it that doesn’t feel right.

The further I explore this place, the more I find it noisy with quietness. It’s a place people will not be proud to admit they ever enter—a place so empty yet crowded with countless soundless screams. I’m trying to reach the handlebar somewhere in the four walls of a box, but the loneliness has started to eat me alive, creeping in slowly like a thief in the night. Reality seems more and more vague as time goes by. Am I so fucked in the head that I start imagining things, or is this cul-de-sac even real?

Some passersby smile back when I smile, probably wondering how could someone so normal-looking be put in a cage. I could only offer a weak grimace in response, while theirs are masked with pity. It will probably do to investigate why the one who seems fine could be the one who is not. It has ironically been non-scientifically proven anyway: nothing about this is an illusion or a trick.

In the end, it all comes down to a little more than an hour of waterworks and a trending topic. If I were to make it to the headline news, the title would be displayed in bold classic cursive, highlighting the heart-rending state of the broadcast. I’m about to be pitied even more, and while I hate that, a part of me is relieved to hear that. Isn’t it ironic how a victim of some situations needs the reassurance that nobody blames her for the fall?

Dealing with the exposure of the aftermath is not an easy thing either. It’s the lingering commentary about never being enough, and the tattooed feeling of not fitting in or of being completely left out. I hate that I only have the guts to enter but not to exit. With the only way out being somewhat like an anticlimax—a key to the padlock is buried a few feet below the surface—I could easily find it if only the courage to start digging and never look behind was there.

I could… and I hope I would.

In the meantime, I just want to believe that magic does happen. Being a believer means trusting that you will get what you need instead of what you want. In some desperate moments it may feel like that gets you nothing, but good things take time and sometimes having faith is the only fuel to keep the engine running.

So it goes… the tale of the trapped. An effective alternative for swearing, a cynical ladylike move. She does it to herself though. I long for her to be free to soon go on some new shit.