Freedom

A Story by lexgosomewhere

What does freedom mean to you?

Snow covers the better half of the field just outside the school. Even after an entire week, half remains, to serve as a reminder that at one point there was a storm, one that could not be tamed, and in its wake left a layer. A sheet of thick ice that shrouded everything around it, the air, the court, the nets, the fences, the trees. Everything became obscure, not really all there, and possibly not there at all. But was it ever really there? You could look away and not be sure if anything existed in that tree over there’s spot. You could really just ignore the damn thing, every single one out there in the field. But here’s the thing, you don’t, you can’t, and you never will. I stay inside, but yet I still see that field. I can shovel that solidified nothingness away, but I don’t. Why? All it ever did was distract me. I find myself constantly glancing at it, finding it everywhere I go, reminded of the storm that passed by and dumped its muck and rain showers on me. I could’ve stayed inside, I really could’ve. That’s the beauty of freedom. It fades in and out, but it’s always there, never half, never whole, never still. The silhouette of freedom once danced across the field, humming her song and tweaking the area to her liking. One week a cherry tree grew in the lot, one week a turtle came to our pond, one week a patch of roses hid behind the fence, one week turned into months, until it all stopped. Her silhouette stopped visiting us all together, dragged away with the storm. She ripped her gifts away from us. It was our fault for being so selfish. Gone was the cherry tree. Gone were the turtles. Gone was our happiness. Freedom killed the beast. Freedom killed the sparrows that once swooped and soared near the field. Freedom killed the worker ants that scavenged like troops, following their leader until he too fell to freedom. Freedom killed the worms that dared to show their squirming bodies out of the dirt. Yes, freedom also killed the trees, the plants that stood no chance against the storm, but their freedom never really was freedom. It was fake, a fallacy, a dream. It never existed. We get so entangled in the thought of something. The real beauty of freedom is that I can claim it never was there, but that doesn’t matter at all, does it? As long as it lives within the storm, within her silhouette, within us, I’ll never truly feel...free.