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“Escape…” The word leaves her lips as a fleeting sunset leaves its dusky mark on the world just as twilight sets in. As all words leave those destitute of hope and as all dreams fade over time, it dances away coyly and out of her reach. It leaves her as the one who uttered it’s forbidden syllables, to sit and wait for fate to settle as dust settles in a western landscape. For the dust always settles after those battles.
Never able to be assuaged, never to be contented, those prisoners sit and wait for their dreams to roll past them; unable to make a difference in this cruel, cruel world. And the people, they shout words that echo blindly in the blank void, without meaning, without sound, until they like those who first brought them from the deep recesses of thought to that blank void, fade away, fade away.
Because hope is not plentiful, where these jailbirds dream. And dreams slip away fast, just as water slips through the cracks of life; dripping through, unable to be retained. But then again, show me the man who can keep hold of their dreams; show me the happy man.
Time flows as water flows; neither ever ceases to move. Like a tawdry dance, time continues on and likewise those dreams begin to die away as the amount of time and faith in dreams are inversely related.
But her dreams remain and so does her hope. And her faith in the power of a single escape from everything she’s ever known; it stays strong. Her fear of pain of suffering of losing everything as she makes her daring escape from this world—none of it matters anymore and she takes those steps towards the large iron door.
And the rest, they watch. They sit and wonder, for her fate is unknown even to them. Those melancholy, hopeless men, who can only see through pessimistic eyes, watch, holding their breath, afraid to breathe and break the spell she casts as she moves towards their final goal; their beautiful escape.
As she reaches the door she loses her footing; her balance inhibited by those shackles we are all forced to wear. Constructed of lies, misdeeds, failures and malice; each link a blemish on that perfect downy silk but never meant to restrain forever. But that is the nature of that which holds us, to grasp around our wrists and ankles, manacle our dreams and to hold them within us, bottled up until we feel there is no refuge, there is no reprieve, there is no escape.
As she falls to the ground, she ponders the meaning. Escape; a dishonorable act to run away or a necessary exploit to keep one’s sanity before they burst; devolving into empty shells without hope, dreams and souls. She can’t seem to put her finger on the true meaning; the chains clang against the floor and with glossy eyes, she stares up at that door. It was always the door to which she never once had the key to and yet always dreamed of passing through. It had always been the only way out, the only exit from that small, cluttered room.
Those onlookers let out moans of anger, fear, pain, sadness…. But their pain doesn’t touch her heart any longer. She is left with only the burdens of her own mistakes; of her own failure. And another fetter clasps around her though the curious thoughts of how much more she can endure do not come. And it seems that all is lost as the desperate moaning continues to echo throughout that cold, dreamless room.
That door hasn’t opened in years. The door only opens in, never out, and those souls who pass through that cursed doorway are already too deep in, too far down to know what could possibly await. For no one in life can be optimistic all the time. The real skill is not to remain joyous but to always hold hope close; to not give into to that darkness which lies within every heart. And for those who fall victim, they come to this place. They come to this place to wait for that black velvet to fall over their eyes, blindfolding them forevermore, or to snatch up those knives and carve their own eminent escape.
Not to escape life itself but perhaps this catatonic state of course and that is what makes this such a beautiful motion; that alluring escape.
And as she sits on that stony, cold floor, her mind reeling with restless thoughts, she feels the door begin to open. And maybe it was that single utterance that kept her going all along. The door swings open slowly, a crack of light spewing across the floor, scattering about those shades of grey. Her eyes illuminate as it strikes her head across the face, the power of light too great for those eyes that have been accustomed to darkness for far too long.
And her voice cracks when she speaks again, tears choking her every word. The moaning continues but now they are inspired by only new hope that one can gain from seeing a caged bird set free.
She smiles and struggles to rise to her feet. Those chains seem light as feathers now as the taste of reprieve dances over her lips.
Never doubt the power of dreaming.
Never doubt the power of hope.
Never doubt the power of escape.