The First Freedom was difficult but
inevitable. It was a lesson
we all had to learn: that escaping from the womb
comes with it
Some of us didn’t understand.
But those of us who did would go on
until Freedom Number Two.
Now Freedom Number Two is not inevitable.
But, as in all transactions in life,
requires of us a payment.
Payment for the knowledge that placates
each passing of the day.
Payment for having to decide
what freedom really means.
Payment for having the terrible freedom
For we won’t always choose for happiness.
Choose knowledge instead.
Or solitude or survival.
Or even wisdom.
Or at least the violence necessary
Whatever the cost, freedom will never be enough.
The Final Freedom, however,
is not a choice.
It is the thing that matters the most.
It is knowing the word that can cut through flesh and bone.
And finding the silenced thought in the skull
where the beloved resides.
Until the heart that bleeds
finds another way to die.
It’s freedom itself.
Freedom from pity, despair and strife, but one
defeated all the same. Not because it's
joyless. But because
nothing. Nothing at all
And that’s when it happens:
when the Final Freedom takes over,
and our last breath of life we surrender,
we close our eyes and realise
we have always been
tethered to each other;
guarded and pleading,
haunted and needing,
each and every single one: