The Placeholder
Your life is…fine.
There’s a routine that you find comfort in. No surprises. No changes. The years start to mesh together. You start wondering what happened when. It could’ve been last year when it actually happened five years ago.
At least you’re safe in this bubble you built together, isn’t it? Sometimes the air is stagnant, but you’ve been breathing it for so long you forgot what fresh air felt like. Sometimes you look a little further from the bubble, where the wind blowing through the trees gives you an itch. That little growing urge to scratch it, and pop the bubble to feel the wind through her bare skin.
In this bubble, everything’s constant, except for one thing.
You.
You see it everyday in the mirror. A new wrinkle here or there. White hairs suddenly sprouting out even if you’re not in your thirties yet. The years crept up on you without you noticing.
What happened to those plans you made at eighteen? Shrouded with the promises of love and commitment. And those goals you keep writing up every New Year’s? A reacting mistake from your younger self. You still see parts of her in the mirror when you look a little too closely at the growing eyebags. The weight of trying to keep it together shows on your face by dragging down your eyes and what was once a genuine smile.
And soon, that mirror will shatter, reflecting what’s going on in your insides.
And you won’t have anyone to blame but yourself. You were too scared to leave the bubble. It’s not that hard to break it. The shackles of your mind bound you to it. Guilt, fear, and insecurity clouded your space along with your thoughts.
You hold your hand up against the bubble, staring fondly at the daydreams you never seem to escape. You wonder if you did certain things differently you'd be rewarded for putting yourself in here. To show you can behave. To show your loyalty.
Even if it meant putting yourself last.
Patiently, you sit and wait. Wait and wait and wait. If you do something out of the routine, you might get punished or hated. No, you must wait for them to tell you what will happen so you can act and plan accordingly.
Although, you’re the only one stuck in this bubble. While they go on to search beyond the metaphorical prison. They don’t look back nor question their decisions. They know you’ll be here obediently waiting for their return. And while you lament for yourself they’re touching the soft grass and smelling the fresh air.
Being free.
Freedom they will never let go. Why else would you spend years in this situation? It’s their plan to keep you like this. They reel you in with an elaborate story of a future that’s nowhere near you, just to keep you in this constant and stagnant state. To make it bearable for you even if you’re slowly wasting away.
The tragic part is that you know well and good. But a sheltered life is all you know. And they know it as well. That’s why they use it to their advantage, knowing you sure won’t.
It’s another kind of slow death. One in which you become a doll, or a puppet. Only moving as the strings control you. By the time it’s too late you’ve become numb. You’ll be devoid of motivation and self love to break free; you’ll think that’s what you want and that you’re happy with the end result.
But in the end, it’s all for a ring that was never placed on your withering finger.
