Friday, June 17, 2011

A Broken Puppet

A Broken Puppet

A broken puppet, struggling to perform his dance on this worn out stage life, amidst this frenzy of laughter, clowns, drunks and fools. Blending in well for they are blind and cannot see the tears on this puppet's face. With his weak voice he calls out to the crowd and utters: "see me here struggling, struggling to perform. Can you not see I am broken? Can you not hear my cry?"


You do not care if the puppet is broken. All that matters is that he performs his dance... for your amusement, so as not to recall that you are broken too. Can you not see that we are puppets on strings? We move in accord to expectation, in accord to impulse. Why should we burden ourselves with question? We fall in love with ideas, false images of perfection, of the ideal.

I too am puppet, I too am tired of performing.

I continue to push myself. I continue to try. Nonetheless I know the truth. The mask I wear is broken, the tears on the rims of my eyes are visible. I am just about ready to give in and to let myself hang on these puppet strings, to let the tears smudge my performer's face. I am just about ready to let the audience throw rotten tomato and egg to my face.

For how long will they shame me? They will soon bore and move on to the next victim, the next in line to fall and let himself hang on those god forsaken puppet strings.

Another soldier, another dreamer down.

Oh how I wish that the spot light leaves my worn out stage to darkness. There, in solitude I can be free. Free from the circus, society. On those planks of worn out wood I will fall to my knees and let all the sorrow pour from my heart. I would lay and fall to sleep to wake up to foggy day in a forgotten field. I would wake up a new man, fresh and liberated from the chains of that machine, cruel and harsh, society. I would be human, not puppet, not performer. I would stand strong, my face flawless and a faint smile on the corner of my mouth would be enough for one to understand that this man's spirit is free. The cold morning air would fill my lungs and my bare chest will rise to that day, to life and freedom. Night would only be a memory, no longer a reality. A memoir that I would leave behind, with that stage that was once my life as I disappear into ligh and fog, underneath a tree shed of leaves.

A free human being.


Date: Wednesday, 30th March, 2011

Inspired by: "Making Up Minds - Eluvium"

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