Self-Made Prison
by Janice F. Baca
Prison walls - a state of mind.
She arrived at work and sat in her blue chair, at her old black and gray desk, staring at her soup-splattered computer screen. The office has everything to make it feel like home; the blanket grandma made, the family photos, and knick-knacks. She plopped in her chair and glared at her computer. Her body slumped over. Her hands began to shake as she covered her face. Opening her cabinet drawer, she pulled out a bottle of pills. She shoved tablets in her mouth and sipped her coffee. Taking deep breaths, she reached over and punched the button that brought the computer to life. She struggled to swallow then slowly began her daily routine - minutes turned to hours. At lunch she dashed to her car and drove to a nearby park. She sat in her car watching the trees sway with the wind. The birds and the butterflies flew from place to place, doing what they are called to do. Glancing at her watch, she let out a deep sigh and closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her check as she started her car. The drive is slow - her thoughts soaring with the birds. She envisioned herself walking the sidewalks in the cool of the breeze with no one to stop her. Shaking her head, she straighten up in her chair, grunting at her thoughts. Arriving a little too quickly for her own comfort, she sat in her car in the parking lot staring at the doors - the routine of her demise. She trailed back to her cubicle and established the ritual again; completing the same day she did yesterday. Later, arriving home, she walked through the kitchen and into the living room. She stood next to the window and her eyes became fixed beyond the glass. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. Her hand rose gently touching the glass, tracing the contour of her reflection. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her head bowed, her eyes lowered, she whispered a prayer. Lord, I believe in you. I hope you still believe in me. I don't deserve you in my life, Lord. But I know you made me for a purpose. I've ignored it all these years. I just - I just want to do what you created me to do. Please, Will you help me be free from this cycle of death? I want to live - live my dream. She slowly walked to her room, changed her clothes and climbed into bed. Pulling the covers under her chin, she thought about the words she prayed. Her eyes became heavy and she drifted to sleep. Suddenly, the room filled with light surrounding her body. A gentle wind circled around the room. The curtain began to flap with the movement of the breeze. The wind seemed to whisper throughout the room. Her eyes still closed, began darting left and right. She tossed and turned in her bed. A glow filled the room...a peace that surpasses all understanding engulfed the woman of prayer. She inhaled deeply breathing in the glow deep within her lungs. Then, quietness filled the room. She awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and renewed. Leaning over the counter she looked at her reflection in the mirror. She smiled with contentment. She left for work a little early and drove to the park. She left her car and walked the trail she never walked. She fed the birds she never fed. It is a new routine - it's a new day. My tomorrows will no longer look like my yesterdays. I am free from my prison. It's time to live and not die! Dreams without action are fantasies. I live for the dream that becomes reality! © 2008-2009, Janice F. Baca, All Rights Reserved
Join in and write your own page! It's easy to do. How?
|
