The Click

There she sits. She sits and she waits for her time to come. Every Wednesday she waits for the people on high to descend upon her to tell her if they hear the click. The click she yearns for. The click that tells her she can go and be free. Feedback as to how she did over the past week is handed over. She hopes that one week will come when they sing her praises. She hopes one day that she will hear the click signalling she can start to mend her life on the outside.  

She has clammed up however, refusing to speak the truth. She wishes that just keeping busy will go in her favour. She is provided with Lego, something she used to do as a little girl. They bring her box after box and she makes piece after piece.

If only life were as simple. If only life would come in a box with assembly instructions and bricks that click into place. Instead it comes in all different shapes and sizes to all different shapes and sizes. She sits and hopes that today is the day when the pieces click.

She is disappointed when her ten minutes with her doctor are up and she is told to keep trying to make the pieces fit. It’s like putting a round peg in a square hole. She rings to say she needs more Lego. When it comes, she carefully opens the box and tentatively looks through the contents. When she finally takes some of the pieces out of the allocated bag and fits them together with that ‘click’ sound that she so craves for her own life. She yearns for the click, the click to say that I’m here and I finally fit!

Conformity is a bitch. There are people out there who will never get the opportunity to hear the ‘click’, but she however sits and counts herself lucky to have guidance in trying to find the perfect piece, the piece that ‘clicks’.

picture from pixabay