Do you know how it feels to watch a burning world while handcuffed? And the key lies just a foot away, just out of your reach, but you can't unlock it because you haven't waited enough time? And those who have waited enough, whose hands are free, are watering the world with flamethrowers and blame those in handcuffs for using them?
Can you imagine how it would feel to be told that your only way to stop the fires from spreading is your voice? To know that you must sit still and look pretty, can't show the world your problems, hide your fears and pains behind a mask of positivity, advocate good will and solutions that can't be heard over the roar of the flames? To try to put the pen to the page, in the hopes that someone will listen, but you can't hold the pen through your handcuffs, and the page is burned as you try to write?
Can you see it now as the flames lick your heels and you plead for help, but those with flamethrowers are too busy pointing their guns at each other to notice? And can you feel the fire burn you slowly from below, and you try to blow it away? But your voice is tired from screaming, begging those with flamethrowers to listen, to put away the flames. And you cannot scream any longer- they will not hear.
And you are promised that in a few years, just a few years, that key will be in your hands, and you will finally be free. But do you know that by that point, you'll have lost the will to put that key in the lock and twist it? Do you know that you will have given up on being free, given up on being healed, given up on trying to run from the flames? They are everywhere. Everyone is bound. Everything is being burned. The only thing you can hold with your cuffed hands is a flamethrower.
Can you imagine picking one up? Can you imagine seeing the world and pulling the trigger? Can you hear the soft ripple of flames pour out of the muzzle of a gun with no kick, with no recoil, with no affect anymore on the soul? And can you hear the words pouring like that fire from your mouth, blaming those that kept you bound for making you use your flamethrower? Your words will be louder than the fires you are baptizing the world in and louder than the strained, hoarse voices of those you are burning.
Do you think you can see now someone, some one person, walking toward you, unafraid of the fires, undaunted by the words you call truth, holding a key? The one you dropped in favor of a flamethrower? They walk softly to you, saying nothing, having no weapon but the threat of freedom and a smile, and you feel threatened. You try to pour flames on them, to stamp them out, but they don't care about the flames. And you realize that that was the secret all along.
Do you see them reaching for you, taking your worn, swollen hands in theirs, and inserting the key in the cuffs that hold you? Can you hear those empty cuffs colliding with the fires on the ground, burning up, having no purpose now? Can you feel the freedom? Can you feel the freedom?
Can you see your handcuffs on the ground? Can you imagine them scorched, broken, defeated? You are freed from your burden now. You let go of your flamethrower, and it too is absorbed in the flames. But around you, the flames cool down and peacefully simmer out. Can you imagine that?
Once more, remember the forgotten dreams of your youth and your bondage. Before you had a key. Before you were freed. Take those and form them once more in your mind; give them shape. Give them purpose. Give them hope.
That is your key.