Freedom is a complex state to capture in words. So much, that when asked as a young man in a foreign country, how it might feel, I never could describe it. When you know wonderful family life, caring neighbourliness you take for granted, the most beautiful girl in your limited world who loves you without reservation, how can this not feel like freedom?
And yet you know, when you encounter the divide of race, that your soul sees another, unlike it. And before a heart-wrenching word is said, you know to expect it, and something deep inside wants to die.
He who has passed on, in his wisdom, would have called it all angles in a swan formation, a distraction from the essence of humanity and its fallibility. He would have said that the power that engenders the need to express such revolt, is like a spectral effigy seeping through imaginary vents. It exists in the mind of a deprived soul, seeking its own freedom from deceit.
A mind that grows from its own hard-won freedom, however hard to describe, does in time conquer all fears. Fears of knowing, that inside you hurt when those you know do, that it is not a simple task to carry the burden of truth that perhaps sometimes you’re privileged to know, that whatever it all means, the day shall come when it shall all grow out of piles of spiritual litter, and reform, to ignite another spark…the human spirit.
Some days, you relegate the expression of such intimacy, to a special day. But it never comes. Until the rain-soaked puddles mark the spots where tears were shed, and the rain fell, in equal measure. And then you had to say goodbye to the one symbol that meant that freedom was possible, even when you still could not describe it.
When the world cries in tandem, he may not live, but he will never leave.