Broken Shackles

The hum of the air conditioner and the whirling of the clothes in the dryer give off a peaceful hum through the silence of the house. My fingers making an un-syncopated rhythm over the keyboard. Over it all, the crickets’ singing drifts through the walls separating me from the backyard. The dogs are below my feet, taking shelter beneath the office desk. Outside of this, there is no world. There is no other sound, no other heart beating, nothing waiting on me. If I stay here, if I don’t speak, if I don’t turn on the television, no other sound will break into this evening. I’m not lonely. Actually, for a few moments anyway, I relish the solitude. I can vaguely recall this feeling from before—knowing that I can choose to do anything I want. I can stay here, write all night, watch TV until dawn, curl up with the dogs, get drive through, go have sex, fall asleep early, sit on the porch swing and drift away. I’ve always loved freedom. I still do. There is peace in it, albeit somewhat tortured. I preferred the ‘freedom of my chains,’ but I remember the appeal of this life. There is a beauty to it, but it is a hollow beauty, a forced freedom, a facade to be whole alone. I can finally recall that I used to be at peace on my own. Indeed it was one of the main reasons Chad had to work so hard to get me to date him. I didn’t want to give it up, I was free. So I thought. I can now see it for what it was, for what it is—although having had the alternative, it is now tainted. Whatever choice I make, at least in part, I make to validate the so-called-freedom. Should I choose to, I could change everything tomorrow. Quit my job, change careers, move to another house, change my life. I’ve done it before. More than once. Freedom. Freedom. Such an important thing that it used to be my password for everything (not anymore, don’t bother with the ATM just yet). Turns out, my definition of freedom was unrealized previously. I discovered freedom in the expectations of another, in the happiness of another, in the arms and fears of another. While the walls of the house are not screaming at me in silent torment as they were, neither are they warm and welcoming as they were for a time. So, I have found and lost freedom. I know that I can live, survive, and, at times even enjoy the replacement I have now. However, sadly or blessedly—however you want to see it—I cannot be fooled to call what I have now what I used to call it before. Well, I guess I will call it that, but that doesn’t mean I’m fool enough to know I’m not using its real name. So. Freedom. I think I’m off to experience some of that oh-so-precious freedom right now. Why not? I’m free again, right? Free.