Through the window.
When I was writing a paper on F. Scott Fitzgerald in high school, I came across some secondary source material -- professional critiques -- that shared a metaphor about Fitzgerald's perspective as a narrator. He had a split perspective. The little boy looking in the window of the party as well as someone inside dancing. And through the progression of Fitzgerald's works, the little boy at the window was growing cynical.
I just had a flash of a metaphor for myself tonight. I have my own window on a party. And people I love are inside. Only something bad is going to happen and they don't see it. And no matter how hard I bang on the window they can't hear me. Or maybe my hands are cuffed behind my back. Either way, the attempt to help can't be made or the attempt is futile. And the big bad thing happens.
Or maybe it's not one big bad thing, it's 100 little things. It's telling someone to look out before they trip over a stray cat. Or telling them the pot on the stove is about to overflow. Or that pile of books is awfully precarious. Or don't pick up that dish without a pot holder. And maybe enough little bads is as bad as one big one, especially when they could be so easily prevented. But I'm never heard, never listened to, never given the chance to help.
And instead of growing cynical, I grow helpless and raw. A nerve exposed.