freedom, a short poem-story
i've spent a lot of time imagining wings. how might i fly, higher now, and then some more?
artistry felt like that to me. the freedom to become. to move. to go.
there felt better than here.
freedom to me was movement. it meant leaving home. again and again. suitcase and ambition tightly packed near my chest (i'm not gonna lie... that part of me is alive and well, bouncing around in my brain like a thousand happy monkeys on one of those playground-metal-climbing-quasi-sculptures, that my inner child critiques as enrapturing modern art. how could it not? the beauty of people places and things in my imaginings. the mystery. the vortex of unknown, calling, its siren song hungry with perhaps. i still dance with it.)
if i stopped, it felt like dying. potential withering away in my body, almost excruciatingly impossible. so i went back to running, rushing wind on my face, breezing past the unfocused faces that populated my life.
freedom was undoubtedly the one thing. the fast thing. the moving thing. the there door.
what it was not: a choice.
was it really free then?
a little thing and her big wings. another yearning appears. what if i plant my feet?
so i start imagining roots (it really helps that my house plants are so wise, i have hella borrowed insight from them).
what if here is enough?
what if freedom is rest?
what if i have arrived at my destination, again and again?
i notice the rain. it deepens the well inside of me and i cry, a lot more, not because i am sad, but because i am. and i decide that is worthy use of my sacred tears.
artistry starts feeling like freedom to be. just like that. just like this.
and don't get me started on love.
i walk on stage with my heart and my monkeys and i can breathe. i am here. that is enough.