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.