The Fair of Invisible Strings

They said the City of Glass was the freest place in the world. There, from an early age, everyone learned to repeat: “I am my own master.”

The streets had shop windows lit deep into the night, crowded cafés, music on every corner. There was also one common detail: everyone wore a small, smooth, elegant ring around their wrist, as if it were an ornament. Asking about it seemed strange.

— It’s just a symbol — they would say. — A reminder that no one holds me captive.

On a pale sunny morning, a pilgrim entered the city. As he crossed the gate, he heard laughter.

A well-dressed man pointed at a group walking toward a small chapel. They also had rings on their wrists, but they wore a light, discreet cord across their chest, like a small fabric rope.

— Slaves of the Gospel! — the man mocked. — They still need God to live.

The pilgrim said nothing. He preferred to observe.

In the central square, the Fair of Invisible Ropes was taking place. Stalls offered thin and thick ropes, scented, gleaming. Each one came with a label.

In one corner, cups and bottles formed a pyramid. The sign read: “Forgetfulness by the dose.” The vendor handed out the Rope of Drink; it seemed liquid and refreshing.

— Tie yourself up just a little — he smiled. — It’s to help you relax. You can untie yourself whenever you want.

Nearby, a dimly lit tent concealed screens everyone knew.

— This is the Rope of the Gaze — it whispered. — No one needs to know. It takes little, relieves a lot.

Farther on, a stall released a sweet-smelling smoke. The Rope of the Cigarette was gray, soft, with the scent of old comfort.

— It’s companionship — the attendant said. — A break. You’re in control.

And, in the center of the square, on a raised stage, the greatest salesman of them all offered polished golden chains that reflected faces and lights. His sign bore a single word: “More”.

The Chain of Money promised security, respect, and a future. Whoever tried it on left in a hurry, as if time had suddenly become shorter.

The pilgrim noticed something unsettling: when someone tied a rope to their wrist, it disappeared from sight. But it did not disappear from movement. Little by little, the person began to walk within a certain radius and always returned to the same place, to the same promise.

At the end of the fair stood a large mirror, as tall as a door. No music, no vendor. Just a sign:

“Look”.

People turned their faces away.

— Mirrors are for guilty people — someone said, quickening their pace. — Whoever is free doesn’t need to look at themselves.

The pilgrim stopped before the mirror and saw what the city refused to see: every ring was a link. From each link extended a line reaching toward a stall, a bottle, a screen, a cloud of smoke, a safe. Crossing lines formed a web. And behind it, there was weariness.

A man appeared beside him, friendly.

— Don’t get hung up on that — he advised. — We’re free here. The ones who are trapped are those who get involved with religion.

The pilgrim pointed to his wrist.

— And that line?

The man looked, saw nothing, and laughed.

— I can stop whenever I want.

Even so, his feet stepped back, as if something were pulling him. He pretended not to notice and walked away.

The pilgrim continued on to the chapel. It was simple. At the door, a woman was sweeping the floor. Her eyes were tired, but there was a steady calm in them.

— Aren’t you prisoners? — he asked, without irony, only seeking to understand.

She rested the broom.

— I used to be a prisoner of many things — she replied. — I only changed Masters.

He noticed the light cord across her chest.

— And doesn’t that drag you along?

— It reminds me where I return when I lose my way — the woman said. — It isn’t a rope to dominate me. It’s a bond to sustain me.

Just then, a man staggered in, smelling of alcohol, with the face of someone who had grown tired of making promises to himself.

— I said it was only for today — he murmured. — I said I was in control.

The woman did not humiliate him. She gave him water, a bench, and her presence.

The pilgrim understood the contrast: outside, control was being sold; inside, truth was being practiced.

That night, a storm fell upon the City of Glass. The lights failed. The music stopped. And when the shop windows went dark, the invisible ropes began to weigh heavily.

Hands trembled as they searched for smoke. Bodies ran toward the stall of forgetfulness. Desperate eyes searched for any lit screen. And many clung to the golden chains as though they were life preservers.

In the darkness, some finally realized what they had been calling freedom.

— If I am my own master — a young woman whispered — why can’t I let go?

The pilgrim returned to the mirror. People approached slowly, as though approaching a diagnosis. A man who had mocked before touched his wrist, searching for the line.

— I didn’t know — he confessed.

— Some prisons disguise themselves as choice — the pilgrim replied.

Someone pointed toward the chapel.

— And them? Aren’t they slaves too?

The pilgrim looked at the small door, where a simple light remained lit despite the rain.

— They depend — he said. — But look at the fruit. There are dependencies that steal away your will. And there is one dependency that, over time, gives your will back.

When morning came, the fair reopened. The vendors smiled as always. Many ran back, as always.

But some did not.

Some faced the mirror without looking away. Some asked for help to untie what was pulling them. Some entered the chapel and discovered that depending on God was not the end of freedom, but the beginning of rebuilding it, from within.

And when they heard once again “slaves of the Gospel,” they did not answer with anger. They simply said, serenely:

— Everyone serves something. The difference is whether that something consumes you… or remakes you.

Moral: The most dangerous slavery is the one disguised as freedom. And the most liberating dependence is the one that brings us back home.

A brief preface

This fable was born as the result of a dream I had after reflecting on how many people become slaves to what they call freedom. I fell asleep with that thought, and then an awakening dream came to me.

I do not know whether it was only a dream. But there are ideas that do not come from us… they simply find us.