the art of

four » freedom

Do you know the feeling of being trapped in a body that doesn't feel like yours? As if you're a ghost, trapped in a shell? A body that watches the world spin while colors merge seamlessly in front of your eyes—capturing the frowns of strangers and the glittery eyes of children with balloons tied to their wrists—as your fingertips reach out to feel the chair beside you. You sit down, not even feeling the motion or the hardwood underneath your thighs. And you want to tie your soul to the body—to remind the hidden annex littered with blanketed thoughts to not swim away from you, to give you sanity, to remind the world that you aren't just another body on this lonely earth full of seven billion people.

I sat down in a room full of silence and felt it crawl slowly up to me, waiting for me to join its group. And I did without any disagreement, after all, anything to not speak to him.

He moved his hand and I flinched involuntarily—an instinct built into my genetics, hardwired and coded.

"You're afraid of me?" He let out coarse laughter which was followed by a series of throaty coughs—thank the toxic monster you call cigarettes. "Pass the bread."

I passed him the small basket of sliced bread and watched his hand stumble to grab it. Four, five, six bottles.

The cycle never ever ends. Backpack on the bed, footsteps on the stairs, the scratch of the chair against the floor, the snap of the bottle cap flying off the bottle, and silence. Repeat daily. It used to be a dream to live in a country where people were so accepting of absolutely everything. A dream that only existed in fairy books. America. The land of the free. The land where everyone rushed to without realizing what they were getting into. In my homeland, I was surrounded by family—the beautiful feeling of walking a few steps and I'd see my grandparents waving. The warm summer breeze rushed down from the skies and pushed the swings we made with wood and string. The laughter of children as they ran to the ice cream truck, who drove over the bumpy roads and zipped past farm animals wandering randomly on the street. And now, all of that has been snatched away from me with the promise of even better, trust me. Now? And now? I live seven thousand miles away from my grandparents. I live seven thousand miles away from a life where bottles were only seen on very special occasions, not every single damn day. I miss feeling free. Now, I'm trapped.

Now, now, now. Now, I'm lucky. Now, I can't feel sad. You definitely felt sad back there. Back there, you barely smiled. Back there, you barely laughed.

What about now? Do I smile now? Do I laugh now? Now, now, now.