The bags are always packed and she was ready to leave at any moment. She’s been always dreaming of the day she was going to run and hide away, once and forever. But it took time to cut the strings. When you have been a puppet to the master, you are always pushed around by your impulses. However resilient she was in her nature, when the strings are pulled, she had no option but to dance. At least the story changes everyday. But somewhere along the line, the same routine pops up. And the hands move the same way as it did before. She had to sway the same way as before. Is it this what tired her? Even she’s unsure. As the hands rest at night, she dreams of cutting those strings off her hands. But it grows stiff with the thought of pulling the hands that pulls the string. She isn’t exactly scared of the master. She is quiet fond of him. All though she has hardly met him, except for his hands when at play. She didn’t need courage. She needed motivation. Her world is bound by the three walls of the stage. Only through the reflection of the audience, she built the view of her world. She had no idea how people are beyond her spectators. And they hardly participate. Only appreciations, no encouragements. And she believed it was the work of the master, never took them in as for herself. For this reason she never grew out of her ego. She was always her master’s slave. And one night, the master cut his strings and decided he wouldn’t be a slave to her anymore. She stood clueless.
Detached
