Cookie-cutter Robots

I’m sitting in an empty parking lot staring straight ahead as I watch all of the cars pass by on the road in front of me.  The drivers stare straight ahead on a mission to get to the next place.  I envy them and pity them at the same time. They are all absorbed in their own little worlds, yet woven so tightly into the tapestry of life that they can’t see past the pattern created for them by others.

I envy them for not knowing that they have any other choice, for being happy there, or at least content to pretend they are for the sake of blending in.

I pity them for not knowing, for their ability to tune out any longing to stand alone-to create their own patterns-to move to their own rhythm and be okay with straying outside the lines.

I watch a white SUV pull into the lot, two kids in the backseat with eyes glued to a tiny TV suspended above them.   A woman checks her reflection in the rearview mirror, adjusting her “straight off the mannequin just like everyone else’s” scarf.   The back of the vehicle proclaims to the world, “My son is an honor student at Riverwood Academy” and “My daughter dances at  Libby Cane's Dance Academy.”

That’s wonderful news, but what about the woman?  What does she do?  What moves her enough to lure her out of the mold she has so willingly succumbed to?  What is the one thing that would lift her just far enough from the solid ground to show her what is on the other side of the mold?

What part of herself did she have to lay before life as a sacrifice for standard?  Has she for

gotten she even sacrificed anything, or did she chip away a small piece and set it aside, hidden from the world but always an arm’s length away, tempting her to merely touch the corner of it---to feel the thrill of self reuniting with self.  Is she afraid that if she touches it she will not be able to let go again-to tuck it back into its secret place? 

I envy her if she has forgotten it is there.

I pity her if she has lost it forever.