I spilled ink across the blank pages of my notebook. It was then that I decided to write stories with my fingers.
We all seek freedom in one way or another. But in the end, we live in an age where none of us know what true freedom feels like. We’ve never lived it beyond our mind and flowering imagination.
Although I don’t know what freedom feels like as a tangible experience, I know the swing of its hips, the scent of its hair and the song in its voice. I know how deeply freedom wants to find me. I know how desperately I seek it.
Whether here or in that place we go when we leave here, I will find freedom. It waits for me, in that place we’ve forgotten exists.
The silken network of threads thin inside me; those webs that stick to everything that I am. They thin, inch by inch, but strengthen, holding on to heart and lung and liver and spleen. They hang on to sinew; but muscles and bones don’t groan. They hang on to elusive time and love spent dry. The thinning web spreads through veins, lengthening along a stretch of miles, traveling at the speed of blood. The blood needs the darkness to cleanse and the light to live. And breathe. It needs me inside you, nestled into a place we thought we’d lost forever.