A warm, winter’s day and subtle tree’s sway. I walked outside and couldn’t believe I would never have to go back. But what would my freedom pay? It’s been so long since I have been free, I thought the moment would come with a dramatic decree that I — that me — would never, ever have to come back.
A concoction of strange emotions bubbled up through my body, and suddenly, nothing felt real — I didn’t feel real. Was I a horse, only useful to be used and controlled? Yet, if I was a horse who had been left to freely be, why didn’t I feel free?
I now don’t know if freedom is a burden or a gift, a beautiful flourish on the canvas of life or a ghastly stroke of paint that I mistakenly brushed onto my picture. My picture, that hasn’t contained a brushstroke of freedom for so long.
