cell of insignificant dreams // rant drabble
<A/N : school ate up my ass, im sorry. but it’s almost over so i will continue writing soon, and this time I WILL! LIKE SERIOUSLY. so in the meantime, i wrote a crappy rant drabble to make up for my anger in school. enjoy.>
The hollering voices of children echoed in my mustard yellow prison cell. Its interior was quite welcoming despite its true demeanor, acting as if to mask the disheartening structure. It was fun in the first few years, but you’ll never realize how it’s slowly deteriorating who you really are.
The splatter of the rain that spurted into the windows spilled in the bars of the cell. The bars vertically line the windows that fully fledge the lengths of the walls. To say it encapsulates the eerie ambiance of an actual cell is barely the surface of what it means to be in my prison cell. Scarred memories, fallen hopes and dreams, and the once cheery, innocent self that slowly turned rash and aggressive – these are what makes up my own prison cell. The feet that drag me into an impermeant hell; the conveyance to the asylum of my darkest thoughts.
They all tell my free-spirited soul to shut my mouth, to stay in line in a single file, to eat at a certain time, to always be in my best behavior. Disgusting, I certainly do not want to be a cookie-cutter cutout. They want us to own our individuality but lists down a set of rules to polish us to a societal “perfection”.
And to bear us with a load that is too heavy for us to carry – no matter how many times you’ve been bruised or lost hope, their whips slash against our backs and our chains become even tighter. Every day, I must bare being a law-abiding delinquent, with no crime but the hope to learn. A disheartening reality, yet I still lay hopeless in a cell of insignificant dreams.
As we approach the roaring fire of despair, I gasped as it sucked the soul of the children that once sat beside me. Their bodies lay lifeless as I desperately try to open the doors to escape. Their voices continue to shout for mercy, my fist pounds on the glass windows. They seem to tell me that I shouldn’t be who I am today, barely a fit of who I should be at my age. I felt the heat beneath my shins. I knew at that point I might as well give up.
They’ll sell my soul to the wealthy. A child like me is to be manufactured as dolls, molded into their liking. “You must be a doctor; you must be a nurse.” They tag you with stickers on your foreheads. You were never given your free will; they just tell you that you do.
My consciousness was then brought back. I look at my watch, 4:00pm. The cycle never seems to stop.
baratheonpilled
annaxmalina
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janainaart
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romaincrisis
