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?


Parched Leaves

When the car breaks down, the world caves in from every direction and you are left at the roadside waiting for the train to go by. You want to scream, fly, run but you fail miserably at the breaks. Not strong enough, they say. So, you keep pushing, waiting for the veil to drop.

You look over and the world is sitting still. The drum is still beating. The circle in your eyes, still puffy. The moon and the stars in formation, winking at you. 

You hear the music but Beethoven it isn’t, so you try to switch to another channel but the symphonic notes still playing the same old tunes. You yell at whoever. You are heard, so you think, responses coming in small packages and yet, you are left wondering about a parachute. You try to spin, flip the page, blow it harder but the recipe is written in stone, No Carbon Copies Allowed. Perhaps, the new pastry chef will add a new dish to the menu but it is not about the cookie dough but the wind, blowing.

Death it isn’t, hell it is but the moutain, although steep, still up for the challange; we are climbing it. Looking straight at the screen below, the music man reads the story on today’s newspaper, outloud. It is dark and storming out the weatherman says but sunshine and bright skies tomorrow.