I saw a woman in a restaurant yesterday.
It was a family restaurant;
the tables came in fours and fives, not ones and twos.
She sat alone on a table with three empty seats.

She studied the menu with concentration,
paying no attention to the world that swirled and lashed around her like vicious waves; a coming tide.
Then she did a funny thing: she took out a book, and began to read.
Amidst all the chaos, she somehow found solace.
I envied her, really, for being able to do that—
to not care,
to dare.

I wanted to admire her.
I tried to admire her, I really did.
But I couldn’t.
I pitied her, and cursed myself for it.
And the plates kept clinking,
and the cups kept singing,
and families kept laughing,
and she kept reading.

the strings that constrain me
are the strings that hold me up.
and i am forever chained to this wooden skeleton,
with a tangle of strings
hanging like a noose around my neck
and handcuffs around my wrists.
lift a finger,
make us dance,
make us fall.
it doesn’t matter.

because the puppeteers always know best, don’t they?
they weigh the odds.
they hold the weight of our lives
on their fingertips.
they sense every flicker of movement—
the slightest inhale,
the lightest exhale.
it is the puppeteer’s job
to weigh the consequences and,
with good intentions,
fasten the noose around our necks
and lift.

and so, on we go.
dancing.
        dancing.
               dancing.
to the melody of our empty lives;
ever-dependent on the fickleness of our maker's fingers
and the hope that our strings
please do break.

Humans have the uncanny need to assign symbols to every conceivable thing they do.

The stars I stick on my ceiling?
It represents the the universe;
an infinitely expanding horizon.
Even if I stretch my eyes far enough,
I will not be able to see the end of the realm of possibility.
The five points of the stars represent my five core values:
family, honesty, love, trust, and passion.
The empty space in between the stars
show what space I have yet to occupy;
empty spaces yearning for a splatter of fantasy.
Everything has a meaning.
Everything has a purpose.

But life is not a book,
and the stars are wilting.
They are not stars of infinite possibility,
and they are not stars of enduring hope.
They are purposeless, except to perhaps,
brighten my room just a little bit.
The stars I wish upon
are meaningless cut-outs of yellow paper.