There’s a certain weight that settles in when you’re lost, when everything feels out of reach but somehow close enough to taunt you. I sit on the couch, staring at the flickering screen, but my mind is elsewhere—wandering through the what-ifs and could-have-beens. A cage surrounds me, built by the invisible bars of this day and age. I’m stuck on the same page, unable to turn it, yet the entire book of life lies open in front of me, unread and unexplored. It’s a strange feeling, knowing there’s so much more, but being unable to escape the stories swirling in your head.
I look up at the ceiling, where fairy lights drape like frozen dreams. They should represent hope, joy, maybe even comfort, but instead, they’re reminders of the plans I’ve never followed through on. Each flicker feels like a heartbeat of lost time, fluttering but not taking flight. It’s paranoia that keeps them grounded, or perhaps it’s me, feeding this endless cycle of fear and frustration.
The world outside feels distant. I peer through the window, watching the flow of people, the tick of time. They pass me by, every minute, every hour. I watch the days melt into one another, a parade of sameness. Every night, it repeats. The same faces, the same feelings, the same loop. It’s as if I’ve been handed defeat on a silver platter, but I don’t know why. The door is locked, the windows sealed, every escape route blocked. So, I sit and stare. I stare and sit, waiting for something—anything—to change. But the lock on the door only grows rustier with time.
Once, I believed in the idea of breaking free, the concept that somewhere out there was a life untethered by this weight. But what does “breaking free” really mean? You break out of one trap, only to find yourself in another. It’s like a labyrinth with no end. You keep thinking, “Just a little further,” but every twist and turn leads you deeper into the maze. And when you finally accept that, you feel the burn. The burn of wasted time, of lost hope, of constantly pushing limits only to realize you’ve reached none. The words echo in your soul: *Straight and fast*. You believe you’ll escape this prison if you just push hard enough. But then, like Alaska, you breathe your last.
You’ve spent so long running, trying to escape, that you never paused to ask yourself what you were running toward. From beginning to end, it’s a tale of being stuck. You think you’re pushing boundaries, that you’ve run out of luck, but then you realize—you couldn’t have been more wrong. You think and think, over and over, until life feels like a monotonous drag. And in all that thinking, you forget to breathe. There’s safety in being locked in, you know. There’s comfort in the routine, the predictability, the quiet despair. But the idea of freedom—real freedom—is so uncertain, so alluring, it feels like the only thing worth striving for. Growing up, we’re told that life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. And yet, the version of the world we carried as children—the one filled with colors and magic—feels more real than this dull existence.
Maybe that five-year-old version was onto something. Rainbows, after all, come out only after the rain. You can only recognize happiness after you’ve endured the pain. Perhaps it’s not life itself that traps us, but the way we live it, the way we let ourselves get lost in the storms. It’s not always the storm’s fault—it’s how we allow it to consume us, bit by bit, until we’re drowning. Think about the people of New Orleans. When the hurricane came, they didn’t crumble. They celebrated, laughed, and lived amidst the chaos. So why can’t we do the same? We’re always searching for a way out, trying to break free from the pain and darkness. But maybe that’s not the answer. Maybe the escape isn’t out there—it’s within.
Does that mean we should ignore the pain, the darkness, pretend it’ll just go away? No, it won’t. But it’s up to us to find the light inside ourselves. To reach in and switch it on. That’s where Alaska went wrong. She let the darkness swallow her because she forgot that the switch was always there. The labyrinth she spoke of—it has reason, but it doesn’t have to be one of suffering. That’s what we decide. You’ll fumble for the switch, stumble in the dark. It won’t be easy. But that’s the point. It’s no good trying if you’re going to give up the moment you hit a wall. You’ll let the darkness win, like Alaska, and be lost forever if you don’t keep going.
So don’t let the labyrinth consume you. The doors may be locked, the windows may be blocked, but the real freedom you’re searching for—it’s already inside you. Keep the light on.