Curtain of Mine

This is for a book of exercises I'm working my way through right now. Enjoy!

Silky see-through chain separates me from my goal. It's tricky, flowing like a drizzle of rain, shimmering in the light; I can see my wish behind it, but the second I reach for it the curtain freezes, hardens into solid steel, all the chain link going rigid. This is the stuff of legends and magic. An evil obstacle on the path to fulfillment, enlightenment, success.

People crowd around, pushing me closer, shoving me repeatedly against the hardened mail. Now they pull me away fiercely, showing me this and that – unimportant trinkets whose meaning I can't grasp. Suddenly I am alone. Sitting on my stool, feeling its coarse grain grains my palms. Why am I sweating There's nothing to fear.

I shove my hand part way through, earnestly starting for the prize, but the curtain quickly realizes what I'm doing and freezes, my hand still outstretched. I scream from pain and frustration. Why? Why is this happening to me? I yank my arm with increasing pain back to my side. Blood stains my sleeve and this sentient mass of metal. It drinks my blood, absorbing it to know me better.

For a while I sit and cry.

I see myself, reflected off my own defense. See contentment. I am at times; content to sit and stare, pretending I'm on the other side, imaging for hours what I'd do if I were. I feel wasteful. My handwriting scrawls across the barrier, broken tools shine there too. Everything stands in the way. Including myself.

Then I see the faces of those I love. The mail takes on a bluish hue, the color of my sons eyes, then blinds me with his smile. My husband's laugh echoes around the room, melding into Junior's giggle. My mother's face serenely smiling, calm, happy. I feel warm. Is it toying with me?

When will it be my turn? I know if I could break through I could be great. There is so much within me waiting to be said.

I'll say it.

For myself, and for them.

I throw myself at the curtain, feel it react to my body, starting to harden, shooting me through with daggers of searing ice. I push with all m might before stumbling forward.

I am here.

The open book lay before me, pages blank, pen at its side. I sit; I stare; I grab the pen and it begins.