When I was a kid we used to spend summers playing in the woods behind my Grandma’s house. We’d make dens and trample down those secret paths that only children make. Over time, they became less secret and more dusty as the grass and moss disappeared to be replaced with the footsteps of an entire season. We left channels through the trees like ants in a farm.
When I look at you, pacing up and down behind the glass, wearing down a path for yourself, I can’t help but think back to those secret ways of my childhood. They meant excitement, they meant friendship, they meant freedom. Yours mean boredom, seclusion, confinement. You weren’t meant to live like this. You should’ve been running free; freer than even our childhood fantasies allowed us to be. You have no secret path, just a small world inside a small glass box.