I live in a glass house
My only companion, silence,
As it follows me from room to room.
It has always been with me
And though I enjoy its company
I am restless.
I long for a sound—
To disturb this insufferable stillness.
My favorite room
Is the one where I keep all of my snow globes—
No, not the cheap ones stocked in every tourist trap
But the ones you collect throughout your life
To shelve and let gather dust
So you can one day wipe off the glass surfaces
And relive the moments inside those miniature worlds.
There is movement on the other side of these walls
It fascinates me
But as I step closer
I realize that I know nothing of the dizzying rush of life outside.
It terrifies me
And I retreat to the comforting arms of silence.
The front door in my house is locked from the outside.
It has been so ever since this glass house was built
And though I have spent my whole life in these walls
I cannot find the key.
The silence grows louder.
I pace back and forth.
The movement outside continues
Unaware of my situation
The silence is deafening
Threatening to consume me in its stark emptiness.
I reach for a snow globe
Feel its smooth, perfect surface
And fling it at the floor.
Or is it me?
The atmosphere of the miniature world
Cracks and shatters into oblivion with an almost musical tinkling
Its shards gleaming in liquid snow.
I reach for another, and another
Filling the room with beautiful, terrible noise,
A symphony of fractured memories and dashed dreams.
At the height of the crescendo, I reach for the last snow globe
Its surface blanketed in dust
And send it crashing to the floor,
The last note in the symphony echoing off the walls.
Heaving, I stand amidst a sea of broken glass, spilled water, and glistening snow
And, lying at my cut, bloodied feet
Is a key, shining in the rose-colored light.