I’ve been sculpted by the world. Like a puppet being carved into existence. I’ve shaped myself accordingly. Sanded, polished, and painted. Sometimes I get chipped or damaged. That’s alright though. I will be fixed in no time and no one will ever know I had a blemish. No one can ever know that doll tied up on silver sting could ever be less than perfect.

Life is rehearsed. You learn what to say and what not to say. You practice where to go and what to do and how it’s done. It’s like a dance. Everyone moves accordingly and things go smoothly. If somebody messes up, strings get tangled and the stage can get messy. Most people avoid that situation and stick to the practiced movement.

Moving is not always easy. If there is one puppeteer it’s not so bad, but when two or more try to take over, things become difficult. Strings get pulled in various directions. But which way is a marionette supposed to move? What puppeteer should be listened to? Gestures become jerky and strings get intertwined. All of the puppeteers logic make sense in some way, but when all of it is happening at once, limbs can get pulled and torn, strings get snapped and grow taunt, and marionettes get damaged and lie crumpled on the stage. Sometimes people don’t realize that they’re pulling too hard on the puppet, or they don’t realize that there already is a puppeteer. In any case, the doll on strings pays the price.

Having a conducted life is dull or painful. There isn’t much of an in between. Is this life really how things are supposed to work? Imperfect marionettes are supposed to take on a perfect image while they’re drug around a platform by imperfect people who jerk strings. What if the puppet doesn’t need the puppeteer? Why can’t I walk on my own and stand myself up or at least choose the person to help hold me up? Maybe these strings aren’t necessary. How do I cut them? And what do I do once I’m on my own?

One step at a time.

Still on the self, scissors can be seen to the right, the door to freedom on the left, and a very long drop down to get to either. No one said the journey would be easy, but I can’t let that stop me.

Leaping from my stand I drop to the ground and a loud snap can be heard. Reaching the table I find the scissors. Taking the sharp metal to my limbs, I cut the long threads that I’ve known. I cut away at the world I knew. Letting go of the silver strings that used to hold me up. I feel light and vulnerable.

Collapsing to the ground I realize that I have no idea what I’m doing. I haven’t learned how to hold myself up on my own yet and I have no idea how long the learning process will take. What if I don’t get up in time and one of the puppeteers attaches new string?

The door is to the left.

I can make it. I have to. I want the damaged bit of me to stay where they are. They’re a part of me. A part of my history. I can’t allow myself to be taken apart and reconstructed and restrung to be something pretty and perfect, something that’s not me. I have to stand on my own and get out.

The door is to the left.