As the music begins, I wake. Once I wake, I begin to spin. Slowly, mechanically. I gracefully raise my arm into an arc above my head, bending my knee so that my toe just brushes the inside of my thigh. The tinny tune mesmerizes me, and I feel its magic working the gears. Closing my eyes, I spin. My ivory tutu flares out from my petite waist, the layers of netting flecked with shards of silver and glass. I have girded my outfit with a tattered satin bow, stained by tears that are anything but fake. My painted porcelain countenance is marred by as yet another tear as it traces a path down my cheek. 

This is my life. Every waking hour, day after day, I pirouette to the illusory music. Every time I wake, the events repeat themselves in an endless monotone, and each scene in my life is precedent, paving the way for another identical, meaningless performance. I pose on my spinning stage, wishing for a purpose. I only live when the music lives. When its time runs out, so does mine. Nothing can expedite the few minutes spent as a living, breathing creature, nor can anything make it last. My gratuitous circumstances are a puzzle to me. What did I do to deserve a lonely, mechanical life?

I feel soft flakes land on my face and shoulders. Looking up, I see white petals falling from the endless black void that stretches forever above me. I step off the spinning box and timidly step over to the smooth, rounded wall that encircles my little world like a black fog. As the petals continue to blanket the painted ground, the spurious music, endlessly spinning stage, and drifting flakes pace inside me the feelings of awe and fear. The two battle within me, fighting for dominance before settling into a state of equilibrium, each taking equal hold of my heart. My life is a system. The gears of the mechanical machine and the magic of life work together to create my disgruntling existence, my lonely dancing providing an ancillary addition to the scene. My soul is implacable. I am tired of living this way. Rage builds up inside of me, directed toward this illusion of a world. The black glass walls give the allusion of a prison. I cannot go on this way.

This is the centennial anniversary of my first dance. I have awoken one hundred times. Well, no more. I scream with a silent voice towards the empty sky, soundlessly proclaiming my manifesto. I am going to break free. If the gears and springs want to continue on for an eternity, they will have to do so without my auxiliary dedication to dance. I pull back my tiny, delicate fist, and hit the glass as hard as I can. There is a splinter of noise, and a wonky crack appears in the center of the wall. Backing away, I consider the consequences of breaking free. I adjudicate after pondering my life within this spherical gray prison, and I rush at the glass. 

My world explodes with light, and something that I can only describe as color. I hear a shatter behind me as I fall, but pay it no heed. Landing on the softest carpet, I look up at the wooden mountain where my home once was. It is gone; nothing but shards remain. My presence was luminary for the globes. Without me, the delusion of that life explodes into peace.