November 17th, 1945
When I was young, I learned to place my middle and pointer fingers down on the left side of the page (which is the right side of that red line as you can see). We called this indentation, which we used to write paragraphs and now journal entries. I learned that indentation was used to push us farther away from the line so our chance of tripping and falling outside of it would decrease. The line was bright red so our boundaries were clear. The other one was faded to give us a sense of freedom, but we always stopped short of it anyway. It was as if writing outside the lines would cause our reality to shatter. The little pieces of glass cut our delicate hands until they were the same color as that line. But that... That was just the warning. I learned the lines were red to tap into our fear of death. Writing too close to them might cause you to trip over a line and injure yourself, which life decided was a bad idea... Learning from your mistakes was not an option because we were never meant to make mistakes in the first place. Because if we made mistakes, that would prove that we weren't normal enough and being normal was the only weapon we had to stay afloat in a world that was birthed to destroy us. But, I never learned what life was like outside of those lines. Were people able to run free without having their life inspected like a lab rat? Or did Life grant you a sense of security until it forced you back into your little cage? Maybe the only way out would be to cut yourself out of the line and leave it mangled enough so it's not able to imprison you again. Well, I guess none of this even matters since I'll forever be a slave to this page.