Owners of a Red Rope

So here's the thing. I've been reading.

No, no. Not the type of reading where you scroll through buzzfeed in order to see what kind of hamburger topping you are. Nor the type of reading that's assigned by professors and makes you want to vomit under a table because suddenly one of your favorite childhood past times has become the most acute and terrible form of torture.

No, that's not the type of reading I'm talking about. I've been doing the type of reading that is so good it makes you sick in your heart. You get sick of the characters because you see them making the same mistakes you make. You get sick of the fact that you can't do anything to change their circumstances. You get sick because you can see what's going to happen and you just don't want it to happen. And then you get sick because what you thought would happen doesn't actually happen and then you're sick of the author playing with your emotions and thoughts but it's just so good that you can't stop.

And then you get sick of your real life. You get sick of how you speak because nothing you say sounds as rich or full or communicates to emotions as well as the words in those books that you read do. You get sick of the petty worries surrounding you because don't people realize that Charles just tried to kill Adam and shows no remorse for any of the abuse he's shown his brother? You get sick of statistics because what are they really even telling you about the human condition? You get sick because the new perspective you get from reading these books throws you into a state of vertigo that is more difficult to stomach than an attraction at a carnival.

So I've been reading. And thinking. And then thinking about what I'm thinking because shoot dang metacognition is real. I should be focused and studious but instead I just want to keep escaping. Either to the dark and foggy streets of London or the warm and daunting valleys of California, full of flowers and life and death. But mostly I just want to write. I just want to take my thoughts to paper in order to make space for the new ones I can sense itching to form.

So I do.

peace out
rrw

.....

There is a window that I look out from and see the trees hesitantly asking the air whether it is time for them to show their secrets that have been held all winter, or if they should stay hidden within themselves. Their limbs bounce in the wind and I cannot tell if it is a cold or a warm breeze that moves them. For, while the window is clear and clean, it is a barrier. It prevents me from hearing the conversation being held across the road between two men who might be friends and who might be enemies. It separates me from the birds flying back and forth with seemingly no purpose but to fly. It removes me from the dog, once white and soft but now brown, gray, and matted. And while I cannot hear his whines as he pleads for release from the red rope tethering him to a tree, I can see his struggle. As I sit behind this window and watch him fight, which effort only entangles him deeper and deeper into the tree, I wonder when he will be released. And upon that occasion, what will he do? Who will he go to? How fast will he run? And will he then return to those people who own the red rope, to be tied up and ignored once again by those he trusts with all entirety? Yes. He will come back. He has been trained to do so and knows no other life. His will is no longer malleable because it has already been molded. It has been molded by the owners of the red rope.

And all this I see from behind the clear, clean glass.