Trapped in Glass

To a newcomer, the city was a bursting beam of opportunity, a spike of life in a climate so bare, a colorfully enticing knit cloth in a dark room. 
But to have always existed there feels like a small ball being shaken around an enclosed maze. 

The boy stared endlessly up at the tall buildings around him, which were merely the iron walls of his cold cell; tall gates barring him from freedom. Each morning he ate cereal and stared outside whilst his siblings escaped their lives in television shows. The window, small yet brilliant, clear yet vivid, offered his only sense of space. He did not realize it was an illusion. For there'd once been a time he could stare outside for hours, imagining himself in every extravagant possibility he'd been surrounded by. Those buildings had once seemed so tauntingly close, he felt he could jump from one to another. The window had once been a gracious hand to lift his mind into whichever moment spoke to his needs. He'd slid down golden rooftops during sparkling spring sunsets, thrived in the flowerboxes of nice neighbors who'd water him when he drooped, played tic-tac-toe on the mosaics of buildings on sleepless nights.

But as with all children, the feeling of wonder slowly slips away and is beaten by the harsh realities of locked doors and iron fences. The window soon turned from a hand motioning forward, to a stern stop-signal. He knew now that the window was a lie, for it gave him only a glimpse at everything he could not have; a lie that told of movement and life but gave only stillness and dissatisfaction. He stared out this window every so often now for only the occasional eye contact borne with strangers. Though the window could not bring any dreams to his life, it could be the vessel for quick glances into the eyes and lives of others. 

It was a hope that first brought excitement, but soon shivered in concern. Day by day, the boy sat waiting for these short bursts of chaos; each one defying laws of speed by sending a billion messages per split-second glance. Over time he took notice that the eyes of so many had gone dim. Even those who resided in the livelihood of his dreams, with windows bigger and shoes cleaner, so often held eyes that were turned off. This worried the boy greatly, for he knew that the eyes do not lie. They are not blank slates created by the laws of right and wrong. The windows of the eyes are construed from the purest of life, through which no illusion should be able to stand between. 

​The window had once reached out, then stood still, and now it caved in. The boy found himself chased by a wall of glass which felt no life. Flat cold glass shards crept up quickly to his throat, speaking in the bland languages of manipulative false promises. He saw now that the window had tricked him, drawing him in with envy; now trying to cool him into solidity and extinguish the beaming wonder behind his eyes. He felt his ability to imagine wither and with it, went all desire to look inward. The window had fed him with envy and struck down his gratitude. The window was the culprit to blame for what he'd lost.

So the boy pointed his finger at the window and accused an object of growing him up.
Denial.