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—

Something

Anything—

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

Crowded, chaotic

Vivid, alive.

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

My longing.

My fear.

 

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.

 

Silence screams

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.