If there was ever a thing called freedom, then it is by all means void. If need be, it is only paraphernalia of itself. What is this concept? If not to meddle in utter lust of a desire that attributes itself to a goal and the fulfillment of it. By all means, you are free to enjoy your achievements, but you are never free from consistency, constantly being fixed on the idea or the need to rise above your previous goals, (i.e, raising the bar every time you reach a new milestone) because the summary of it is that you are only allowed to rise above your standards, or fall below them. And when the gentle winds of desire sneak up to you, you must know of the grief that it hides in its pockets, a kind of subliminal grief that feeds on the urge to discard fragments of yourself in chase of this freedom.
What is freedom, if not to be of your own will, a slave to this grief? Consciously or unconsciously we walk with desire and her pockets of grief in an unusual medley of consent. Like domestic slaves praising their tyrant as a way of humbling themselves before him, regardless that they know he still slays them whenever he pleases.
Somewhere in the subconscious, we are pounded by the facade of loathsome revelations. Somewhere in this plane, freedom speaks as a burden would, while holding up conformity in its hand as a form of megaphone.
“Are we born free if our choices are conditioned till death?”
Is freedom not everything but trust in something more than desires, goals, and hope? Concepts, that even though flawed, help us cope with the ever-growing anxieties and traumas we feel stemming inside us. It may serve us better to lay principles, and not set standards that on deeper analysis seem contaminated by our mental shortcomings.
Gotta be free as the sun.
Have a lovely week ahead guys 🙂