creative-writing

Freedom

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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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Joy. Love. Ride.

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To the safari I want to go, to visit with the animals, talk and run with them, tell them stories, sing them lullabies and play some kind nut games that none of us can explain; boring it won’t be for sure but edgy it will. So, I dream. Yeah, I want to go out in the wild, run free like a butterfly, jump ropes with the kangaroos and scream joy to the world where no one can hear and reply back but feel good, bust up some moves and dance to the groove, inhale fresh air, sit and breathe the sound of nature, let it all out, let it all in and calling it love. Love of thyself. Love of you. Love of others. Just Love. Joy. Love. Life. Living. Cheers!

© Angela Aguiar

Hello August 2020

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It is I looking at the universe and wondering were July has gone and who gave you permission to introduce yourself, August. Four months to the new year, I heard. Hello, glad you are here. Hope you brought some good news.

As if I could touch the ending, the invisible lane hoping all the burdens wiped away by the artist brush stroke, would be left at the curbside. As if all, one heavy, embroidered year that has been 2020 tidily arranged on a bucket of rocks and left by a construction site, would be done on earth as it is in heaven at the click of fingers. But as scripted on the book of life, stories will be told and carried over at turn of the page and dropped like one hot BBQ chicken coming off the grill. It is a given. It won’t just be discarded like an empty suit or used paper napkin at the dinner table. It will still be there sitting in a corner, dejected like a maggot waiting for another soul to devour and moons to touch.

We are all anxiously awaiting the death of the doom, the apple falling in the bright night bringing joy to pupils who wished the year was here today so, they could bless the freshly minted with a smile, cuddle it as their best toy and won’t let go. They hope to ring in the old glory that once stood. I hear hearts pumping, loud, louder, kicking and gesturing like a Radio City Rockettes but time is the essence, it will tell. It won’t be stingy but I suggest we invite faith to trail right along to easy up our burdens.

Pretending we have not, fake it isn’t but real it will be with scores of uncelebrated milestones, places to visit, family reunions to settle. Unless we are Him and we are not, handicapped by our own shortcomings we wait patiently with ease, unable to remove the entangled rope but sitting quietly at the beach, we hear the sounds of the boombox, the new wave majestically washing ashore, the page turner that will give us a new tune.