Heaven, is like lounging on a soft towel, listening to the waves as it empties on the beach, inundated by a sea of rock starts like surfers, immersing yourself on the art brazing the wall and letting go, losing your spirit in the breeze that was one cold Sunday afternoon. And just how the script read.
Spring is here. It arrives today at 5:24 p.m ET . The official first day and it marks the “spring equinox” in the Northern Hemisphere. In the spring, grass is greener, life comes alive, flowers bloom, birds are singing, flocking back north, the air is cool as a jean jacket, rain drops soaking the air, sun shines through the locked door, fashion comes alive parading window displays, leaves are dancing, love is in the air, weddings are thriving, blended wind notes of an accordion, come to play, it is fun!
Freedom is a choice, the right to act of your own free will, to make your own decisions without restrictions or limitations, have options without obstacles or hindrances, be the arbiter of your person without threat of prosecution. It is something I don’t take for granted nor discart as a pamphlet. Consisted of an array of decorative layers and unparallel benefits, a banner of honor of sorts, an emblem one must carry to remind oneself of those less fortunate screaming to have voice.
We live under the umbrella of “we are free to say what we feel and do whatever we want” that we often forget the world isn’t perfect as we become oblivious and accustomed to the comfort surrounding us, as there are places where a sneeze can land you in jail, your every move is monitored like a lost robot, your next door neighbor isn’t your neighbor but a bird with a mouth longer than a truck or one’s rights violated like a broken bicycle. You are expected to keep quiet, not express your free will, where living is synonymous to existing; the psyched game in its core.
I lived such a thing, fascism, communism or whatever that was but as a rebel, I have always been, “my name is,” which landed me in hot waters a few times with pride. I was never the one to see injustice and conform to it as “Shut up” were never two words I swallowed quietly. I guess I have always been my own can of soup, with a mixture of ingredients put inside a turkey; my yesterday with a story to tell.
I have been “free” for so long I have no idea how not to be “free” as I recall what being “in prison” feels like, the memories not so easily fading but at the same time, the price tag, equitable. I can’t complain, I lived comfortably under a microscope, if you can call that, living. It was a dictatorship; care to say a word?
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