What is the point of living if one is bound to his Maker?

This question has haunted me for the past 92 years of my excruciating existence. The concept of what it means to be trapped and controlled has taken on many forms throughout my lifetime, and even as I now lay trapped with no means of escape, I realize that I must face this question one last time.

I am extended on a coffin made of white. I wear hospital scrubs made of blue, and my skin is seeping into a shade of ash. Like shavings of wood blown from the dry lips of an all-knowing Carpenter, I know whatever purpose I have served in this forsaken world is finally coming to an end. My will to live is grinding into dust, whirling off to a faraway place I have never been able to reach. My health is splitting at the seams, and it will only be a matter of time before I am tucked away in a cluttered closet, abandoned for eternity. As dismal as that reality may sound, I prefer the alternative over being a plaything for a Puppeteer who never cared for me.

I let out a dry cough. My throat is raw from sandpaper.

I shift feverishly in my hospital bed. My fragile limbs creak and groan.

Although no strings hold me, I can feel them tug at my ribcage, my lungs—each agonizing breath more and more out of my control.

Control. What a wicked word. My chest shudders from another ugly cough, and I gasp for breath. Tears form in the crevices of my glass eyes. The desperation to be free from the bondage of my Creator chisels away at my meager life force. Why have I grown soft in the condemning eyes of a Carpenter who only wants to see me suffer? Why did I believe long ago that the Puppeteer would guide my actions in ways that would lead me to eternal happiness? My Maker painted and polished the coarse, wooden surface of my skin, fooling me into a sense of security—now my polish lost its shine, and my paint is chipped away. I have been lied to. I have been beaten. And now, I wait to die.

I will never get the opportunity to see those beautiful places. I will never do those things I’ve longed for. Misery, misfortune, and resentment have carved themselves into the fibers of my being. Trials and tribulations are all I have known, and my Carpenter—Puppeteer—Maker—Creator—let all of it come crashing down upon me with a relentless hammer.

As another fit of coughing grips me, I realize with horror that I cannot remember the last time I was truly happy. Had my existence been so futile and meaningless? Had my pain and suffering been so severe? Had the invisible strings that dominated my life been so annihilating? My cycle of woe is endless, and my Puppeteer does not relieve me of it. He watches me, enjoying the spectacle as a child who enjoys a puppet show. I hate Him for it. If I could have one luxury in this oppressive world, it would be the freedom of death. I welcome the cluttered closet.

As if I had summoned the Puppeteer Himself, invisible strings begin to pull on my chest. My heart is pulsing in my ears, and the lights above me flicker. Each intake of breath is a ragged gasp. I try to upright myself, but my limbs are stiff and lifeless. The strings pull harder, and the discomfort swells into a deep, throbbing pain in my ribcage. My heart is slowly descending into a weak rhythm. I feel as though my body is growing heavier, sinking into the pristine white sheets of my coffin. My vision is swimming with a vengeful fever, and although I cannot see Him, I know He is there.

I can feel the presence of my Creator.

I want to thrash. I want to scream.

I just want to be free.

Suddenly, the strings tighten around my windpipe. My hands fly to my neck, my eyes bulging from my wrinkled skull. A splintered cough rips through my throat as I try to clear the sensation of choking, but it is no use. The closet is waiting for me—and so is my Maker.

Darkness swallows me.

I am tucked away in the closet.

I curse the Carpenter who created me.