Walking reflections they share my past. Like simultaneous televisions, they portray the steps that lead to the next one yet to be taken. I cut the blindfold from my face with the dagger of despair and accept what I may see. Our images combine to form the true self that can never be faked. We walk past beggars that hold the keys to our salvation and instead dance behind the man in the expensive costume.
“What holiday is it again?” We murmur to ourselves as we sashay through our lives with prescribed forms given to us.
“Follow the cue card” The man on the blaring overhead yells bringing us back to reality. We look around in bewilderment at who orders us.
“I am my own person,” you defiantly shout as shackled feet shuffle behind other shackled feet. Swiping cards to show our presence in our life has become the calling card of the industrial bound servant. We eat off plastic trays and drink processed milk from metallic cows that moo in quiet sorrow.