For a few years, I lived through/behind a glass panel, watching myself go through life with almost entire indifference. I must admit, it was a very comfortable way of living/to live. Being detached, nothing was blurred by emotions. I could see everything clearly, make the right decisions and handle any pressure and setbacks rationally.
It was easy. Who was this person, who felt no pain, no stress, no sadness, no sorrow?
It was not me; it was my masterpiece.
And I, the puppeteer, admired from afar the unfeeling beauty which I had toiled over for years, perfecting each point, controlling every emotion that was to pass its lamentably weak mind. Now, it was perfect. No more crying, no more slavering, no more hating, no more deprecating.
The glass panel kept us apart, yet inseparably connected; what it felt, I processed from a distance, what I spoke, it obediently conveyed. Sometimes I even wished for it to get easier than that, for my masterpiece to (one day) become more than a mere ventriloquist’s doll. That way, I would not have to speak, only watch as the masterpiece functioned in the beautiful dystopia that I had not/lacked the courage to face.
Yes, it was perfect. This masterpiece I had created - a perfect doll.
But it was just that - a dead, lifeless doll. It was a beauty, but a dead one.
And my glass panel, crystal clear as it was, polish it as I would, could never allow me to view the world in its entirety.
But those were words my masterpiece had been taught not to speak.
Perhaps my wish had come true. Perhaps it had evolved beyond a simple vessel. Perhaps I was no longer in control. Perhaps my protection from the world had ceased to be. Perhaps my glass panel was now a prison, and my masterpiece my master.
It was then I realised, it was nothing but a front I had created. The elegance had vanished, completely. The ramshackle masterpiece I had painstakingly crafted out of my own soul was nothing but a dead thing like the moon now. She was nothing without me.
I was nothing without her.
Someone save me.
The beauty I had crafted no longer appealed to me for it was too far away, too disconnected. The beauty I used to observe from my glass panel could no longer satisfy me. But perhaps those words are inaccurate. Was I ever sated by this distant, dead beauty?
Speak as I may, the fact was that I could have pushed at the panel with all I had, but my glass prison would not have yielded. My mind was still struggling between the cold comfort of my prison and the dangerous idea of breaking free. All I had was not all my will. A part of me would have pushed the other way.
Someone had to save me. And someone did.
No one saw me through the masterpiece. But he did. He saw beyond that apathetic front, he saw beyond the girl who never got hurt.
He reached into my glass prison so easily; it could not have been true. My glass prison was solid. But his hand was there and I could have seized it. He could have pulled me out. But all I could do was smile a sad, enigmatic smile for I believed that no matter how desperate my longing, no matter how fervid my prayers, the other side of the glass panel, and him, were beyond me.
And each time he saw the smile, his hand would withdraw.
When I could no longer see him outside the glass prison, I would poke and prod at the glass. How had he reached in? I would slam my fists against it, sink down and cry, hot tears scalding red lines down my face. How had he reached in?
You have to come out some day.
There was no sad, inscrutable smile this time.
I took the hand that patiently came back day after day after day. Then a light so strong appeared before me and I closed my eyes.
I had no more glass panel. I had no more masterpiece. My only protection now was the thin layer that covered my eyes. But through my eyelids, I could still see a bright, fluorescent orange, a colour I never saw when my eyes where shut in the glass prison. A whisper told me to open them, but I was afraid. The orange light had permeated my last defense. It was danger, I told myself. But he who held me spoke otherwise.
Open your eyes not because you are not afraid, but because it would be foolish to miss what the world has to offer simply because you are afraid.
And I finally saw.
There was no beauty in my masterpiece. There was no beauty in my glass prison or looking through my glass panel. I was afraid, so afraid of being hurt by what was outside. I was afraid that its beauty would blind me. But stepping out for the first time in years, I realised that beauty was bright, beauty was brilliant, and beauty was not meant to blind.