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Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Freedom

The single most impossible thing, I think, for a writer to capture is a clear perspective of his or her own words. We often become entangled in heavily weeded sections of the story and lose sight of the larger landscape. This being a nagging reality, and one that I'm certain many writers are plagued with, I have painfully edited the living shit out of this piece of prose yet again. Bowing to the beast that is the ever growing, never fully satisfied need to create, here is a piece on freedom. How's that for irony? :)

The long. tired row of grey days has stomped all over summer. Trees hang like lazy green question marks. Lawns are all but forgotten, the weather having dampened everyone's will to cooperate with nature. Cars take to the streets out of necessity. Swimming pools are lonely. Children hide inside and huddle at Playstation's altar, building their pixelated empires, rebuilding, arranging, owning, disowning and commanding at will. If only real life were that way. 

I sip my first Folgers and blend happily into the neutral non-light that fills my room. Space that life was once occupied, that children filled and lovers spilled their fornication fluids within is beautifully blurred today and solely mine to roam without any deep thought or 
purpose. Nothing will be required of me. I'll occupy these forgotten rooms sans clothing, boasting my lizard skin. My inner chameleon is a happy creature. I can hide in open view. I belong to the monochrome. 

The big empty adorns me like a loose, friendly quilt...a patchwork of lovers, leavers, triumph and tragedy, unblemished youth and taxed age. The wine was poured, the music was played, young heat burned primal. I promised much to many, a white horse hero. I violated every vow, a hungry roaming pirate never satisfied. I pillaged my world, taking all that I found...hoarding, sorting, scrapping, ever searching for more. The fruits of desire hung like 
healthy vines always at arm's reach. Days were disposable. Time was forgotten but realized alas, when it had taken me too far to retrace my clumsy steps. I finally cursed and cried out at the disappearance of my dreams. Fueled by intoxicating instinct, I was burned by a bigger reality. Now Sheri, true home of my heart, falls from my careless hands and runs from my vacant 
pursuits.

Time, however, has a way of forgiving a man and smoothing his soul over, subtly eroding even the hardest, sharpest of stones. Now the mediation between heart and mind seems to have concluded as a strange, soothing silence hangs over my being. Beyond my window rain clouds move in like schoolyard bullies. I smile though, knowing now that their authority is a delusion. 
What a lovely shade of grey! 

I am George Orwell's Winston; the rats have proven their power. Fear has found me and given me a strange new courage. Resistance is futile but equally undesirable. Old ways will no longer do. My will is invalid currency. My vault is sealed, my economy dried up. Streams of salt, Winston's joy, flow from my eyes. I am free at last.

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