#38

Please… let me be frank.
Please let me be frank.
I’m drunk—
laughing both hysterically and cold.

And in this sharp, stupid clarity,
I can see the strings
hanging off everyone.
We’re all puppets—
puppets to the invisible hands called fate,
playthings of a puppeteer
who moonlights as the author.

We don’t notice it—
but we are.
We all are.

And here I am, in this borrowed moment of lucidity,
painfully aware
that we are not beings of free will—

No. We are not.

And the more I see it,
the more it makes me wonder:

If ever I could tug these strings,
would I be the one in control?
Or would that, too,
be another act scripted for me?

They say only a blade to the throat
cuts the line clean.
But that would hurt—
far too much.
I don’t want that.
And neither do the ones
who are happy because they’re told to be.

Lucky are those born stringless,
and luckier still are the ones
who yank and claw and stumble
until every thread snaps.
Those are the truly free.

But what do I know?
I’m just a drunk
with no tomorrow.
And this isn’t literal—
…or is it?

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