Freedom is a ride through a turnstile.
Captured in body,
in this container that fills
itself, that becomes full of this and that.
Are we ever really free?
free from thought,
free from desire,
free from attachments?
Don’t we hang on
for dear life
and don’t our bodies dictate
how free we feel and all the ideas and
thoughts and paths that flow this way and that,
don’t they go contrary to some sort of freedom?
And if this is how I perceive freedom,
with differing freedoms butting
up against each other—that’s ok. If freedom is also
feeling pain and taking a stand—that’s ok.
For as much as I see freedom as a type
of prison unto itself, it is one that I would
rather experience than not at all. For I am not
talking here of free will or free choice, but of finding the
freedom within this container, from
flesh that binds.