Freedom is usually pictured like summer – light, fresh, warm and yellow. It smells as simple as the start of the spring when the buds begin to explode and our cabinet depths get full of winter adversity – socks, coats and frustration. Freedom to speak, freedom to choose, freedom to leave or stay, freedom not to return. Turns out, even freedom to purposely be blind.
Sometimes, however, between the pomp and prominent shouts about it, there are also tiny freedoms – freedom from a person, whose presence is upsetting, freedom from childhood grievances that are still haunting, freedom from the doubt of humanity, freedom from saying goodbye, freedom freedom freedom… I could just go on with ,,freedom from…”, but maybe that’s not even the real freedom. Perhaps, the true freedom is what we have won on the 13th of January, or maybe the real freedom was to choose the country in which I will live, or religion, which I prefer to believe (or not believe) for the rest of my life. Perhaps freedom is individual for everyone, like dreams or happiness, and not for everyone it smells like summer, not for everyone it is easy, sometimes it’s the opposite. Because of it’s might, inside us, it is like the sea, hitting the rocks during a storm. Or maybe, each and every of us, can make our own freedom?
There was this woman. A great woman, with a big sense of humor, and for her, freedom was everything. She lived by freedom, breathed freedom and was just simply free from all the world’s cruelty. The wars, the hatred, the distrust. But as the time passed, and her secret severe depression developed, her freedom got pent-up. And with nothing else than pills. Earlier she believed in women rights on equality, believed in freedom of humanity, but her freedom was like that sea. It was too big, with no boundaries. It could NOT be tamed. So the woman’s last free choice was to leave. She had the freedom to never come back. Freedom killed her.