hopeful beirut

The Puppet

The puppet master pulls the strings and directs the path traversed by a subdued puppet whose silent head bobs up and down.

Beautiful puppet, yanked back and forth, you might as well be a spectator of the show; you know not what will happen next, cannot forsee the plot... all you know are the confines of that box... You are in your controlled environment: the stage your border, the fake clouds your sky... Boundaries within boundaries reinforce your fear, you exist to entertain, but not to think.

And one day you realise that the strings once taunt, lie limp by your side as you lay in the dark, and you push them aside, you try to stand up, you are filled with enthusiasm, even though you might drop! You raise the lid, take a look around, and notice the stage has disappeared.

Puppet no more, but limp object none the less, you look around and take in yourself. You are finally free, you have found your release, and even though the future seems bleak, you can't help but peak. The puppet you once were, now the writer you've become, dictating the path you want to run down.

posted by hopeful beirut @ 17:22