Watching Through the Glass

Have you ever felt as though you were in a glass box on wheels, with the wheels moving by themselves to different destinations? Have you ever felt the need to scream and shout and shake the nearest person to wake up from the foggy dream they've been living? Some days are those days. The days I just want to stay home and curl up into fetal position in a closet corner. I just want to scream and cry, not caring about how the rest of the world interacts. But no one can hear me. It's just a small voice in my head. A sad voice. A lonely voice. A voice crying to others. A voice waiting for a response. No one cares much anymore. There are billions of people out there. What's one less going to do? Nothing much. I know the voice in my head. It's just a sad voice. A lonely voice. A voice crying to others. A voice waiting for a response. It is a small voice. I'm tired of all of this madness. This rush. This chaos. I wish I could go back. Back to when time was not a matter. Back to when time had not been invented. Then, people wouldn't rush. Children would be sitting in meadows, staring at beautiful puffy white clouds and rich blue skies during the day, and snuggle under blankets watching the mysterious night scenery up above, with the Moon, Mars, and a hint of Jupiter, Saturn, Venus, and some star clouds. Life isn't like that at all is it? It's a one-way road. A long line waiting for the rollercoaster ride to some far place. We can't go back. No matter how hard we try. No matter how hard the voice struggles. I wish I could simply say "April Fools!" or "Psych!" or something to suggest that I'm joking, but I wish and wish to be allowed to go the wrong direction in a one-way road, to escape the impatient line always pushing forwards. Is it just me? Is it just that small voice in my head, smothered with thousands upon millions of other voices reminding me of whatever else I should be doing? Is it all right for me to stop worrying about what is the latest out from Apple? Is it all right for me to stop caring about what type of clothing I should be wearing instead of comfy old pajamas or the favorite shirt with small holes and threads coming out of the hem and worn out, faded shorts? I'm just weary. Weary, but pushed to continue. Pushed to continue, but with a ever-fading voice in my head, crying.