My Cardboard Balcony

Architect; Blacksmith; Dictator; Wonderer by Belinda Roddie My sense of destiny lies in a tower already toppled by clumsy hands and a broken hammer, the ball peen its own little rusted world with lots of little people forged from iron oxide. It remains to be seen whether or not the map I hastily drew in crayon will lead me to treasure or down a bottomless pit; I am not prepared for adventures or crusades. But I do know how to hold the moon between my fingers if I squint and pinch at just the right angle, and suddenly, all the stars are temporarily at my command - they don't listen to me, but I am filled to the brim with relief from the illusion of power. Let the rich man with stubby fingers grope for the cosmos; he can only grab handfuls of air, and they, too, cannot rival his own empty bluster. I am prepared to temper my future, not to sacrifice it into the hearth for warmth.

In that brief, fleeting moment - under the light of the lonely ceiling lamp, white flashes of shadow along the walls, their dark silhouettes threatening to overpower me - I understood their motives. They wanted to intimidate me. They wanted to shrink my ego down to a compacted size that they could carry in their pocket, to coo at like some sort of weak, furry puffball of a pet. And I wouldn't let them reduce me to nothing but a shaking, shivering coward.