from inside my window

laying in bed at this hour proves to be somewhat of a revelation. It is the time when the sun has set beneath the mountains and the moon has risen in all its royalty and glory. The stars have exposed themselves, gradually, one by one; each their own little spectacle of light.

And here I lay, in bed--looking, listening, wishing. At this hour, the moon casts a certain amount of light upon my bedroom window. The shadow that is cast reflects upon the wall to which I stare at. This shadow, this symbol of my life, bears an uncanny resemblance to prison bars. I try to shake off the feeling of imprisonment, but it doesn't wear away.

Outside I hear a distinct car I know that drives up the cauldesac down the street. I listen, carefully. It does the same thing I have come to realize as a routine. Drive up the street, park in the driveway, and only after a few minutes, I hear the car's engine rev up once more and the sound of his exhaust fades away in the distance, the farther away he got.

I wish I were in that car. Behind the steering wheel like that--free. The night is his. The entirety of it. He has no shame, no curfew, nothing to live by ... other than himself. I want to breathe in that freedom for once. It must taste wonderful, exhilirating, beautiful, exuberant.

But not I. Not me. I stay behind the prison bars and in the confines of my own home. The whole "home sweet home" is just a facade; just something I put a front about; something only meant for the fairytales.