Whisper, lick and flick. It dances a slow solemn dance. So young of age and pure, the only light bright enough to flash in the darkness. So young and eager to see the world, wishing to break from the glass cage. A temptation, seeing the world outside yet not allowing it to stretch out to touch the free air. That, of course is said to be for its own safety: you will perish out there, you will hiss out, you are too young to fade.
They say the same to me, but surely a half life, a short life of freedom, is better than a life behind a window. No? Ethical, no, but surely better than imprisonment. I stare out my window, and look at the bustling streets.
Nothing is worse than looking through glass. Not being able to have the choice to fade away. “You are too delicate. Too fragile.” Why would I care what they think? Hide the light from me, stop me fading away. Do I not have a choice, or am I too precious?
Yet despite denying freedom from me, they still deny my dignity in more ways. They let everyone oggle their wide eyes at me, gleaming, glaring, whispering in the room as if scared to frighten the ‘fragile‘ creatures.
So they force me to stay on the canvas, letting the flakes of paint clinging on, to stay just a bit longer. A master piece, they whisper. Magnificent. They hush down, as though I’m not there. They force me into an eternity of crouching, of freezing of aching.
If I had known, the real me, how long I would suffer for being painted, I surely never would have done it.
Let the sun reach me. Let me fade. Don’t keep me here any longer