Suburbia.

The sadness of suburbia. The sadness of what is average. To believe that you were always meant for something better, that you were somehow unique, that you were special and now you look at what your life has become and all it is, is ordinary. To then have to admit that you have lied to yourself for so very long, long before your children, long before you bought the house that is now a prison, long before your marriage to the man who is now just a stranger in your bed. Every night you pray, not for health or material gain, but for quiet, for silence, for a moment of clarity, for a moment to breathe. For everyday you hold your breath in hopes that your life will somehow become real, that your husband will come home and see that you are more than just a social construct, that you will somehow break free of suburbia, that tomorrow is your last PTA meeting, no more dinner parties, no more Sunday brunches, no more lies. But your lungs grow weak and your face red and reality comes roaring through and brings with it a hell that even the great Dante Alighieri would find distasteful. This hell is to be forever trapped, trapped in a loveless marriage, trapped within four walls, trapped in a role that dictates your life, and trapped in the idea that your children weren't born from love but out of some sort of social obligation. You've forgotten what it is to cry, for tears no longer form in eyes that are dry, hearts that are cold, and bodies that are beyond numb. But tonight you cried, tonight you cried.