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What freedom?
Eagles are kings, for they have fully conquered the skies, but when they die, they fall down to the ground. Sharks tower over the blue oceans with their fists of iron, but when they die, they float up on the sea. Love is freedom, we say, but a man in love is a slave to fear, the fear of having their heart broken and that of tomorrow. We say freedom is in the wind, but when it comes in too strong, does it not dismember trees and wreak havoc? Freedom is in the leaves, we say, but do they not fall off when winter whispers from the south? We call every day that freedom is that which lives in our hearts, but if freedom is in our hearts, why then do they break and we cannot stop them? Why do our hearts drag us by our necks in and out of holes, through thick and sharp, scathe us, scald us then end up broken and irreparable? We say we have in us freedom, what freedom? If we could find freedom in songs, why then do they rip us apart sometimes when we seek consolation in them? Why are some of them gay and some constipated? In my life I have heard music that calls, and music that chases. I have heard music that makes and music that breaks, but oh, I am yet to see one that frees. In my life I have come across love, a bullet in my heart, a blade that mutilates and milks me dry. So a road, love or freedom? If love, then I truly is a slave to the rhythm, and freedom, oh I see a sparrow flapping its wings, steadily and gracefully rising only to meet the tough metals of her cage. We say freedom is found on birds, but like us their wings break. Like us they lose battles to nature and they strive for life. Like us birds lack. If freedom lay in the moon, why then does it disappear when clouds are heavy? Why does it flee and plunge us in darkness at times? If it is in the rain, why then does it at times flood our doors and pelt our backs in reckless abandon? Freedom is a story that knows no end. Freedom is the pen that feeds the canvas. It is the colour that fills the page. Freedom is not in the song but the singer. Freedom is not in the voice but in the words. Freedom in birds is not on the wings but in the flight. Freedom lies not in the beginning but in the end. Freedom does not lie in the midst of fear but in the little ounce of strength one can gather. So in the end, what is freedom? Freedom is the road that none has ever walked, and in my life I have known, that if one lacks freedom, even a little ribbon can be a huge chain.

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