Freedom.

I think freedom is beautiful.

Even the word, even the sound of it.

It provokes a feeling within me,

As if two simple syllables rolling off my tongue

Hold onto any stress and let it out into the world,

Ready to be dissolved by the world’s greater issues.

Freedom.

It embodies our childhood selves,

Our innocent vulnerability,

Our lack of knowledge of hardship and heartbreak.

It represents goals and dreams,

Wishes and aims.

And holds our hands when we feel like falling.

Freedom.

It has spite.

A menacing, cut-throat ability.

A sharp pinch at the end of your tongue,

As you learn to harness its powers.

Freedom.

It can hurt those around you.

It’s the divide between life and death.

It’s a metaphor.

A metaphor for the bungee chords that hold you above the water as you jump off that bridge.

The ones that hold you back just enough, just right, so you don’t come crashing down.

Freedom.

A metaphor for humanity.

Resourceful, loving humans.

We take our world for granted, we take our freedom for granted, we take ourselves for granted.

Freedom.

It’s a word I love to use.

But do I really know freedom?

Will I ever know freedom?

Who is she,

And how do I find her?