Freedom in a Nutshell

Photo by Oscar Mikols on

All wrapped up in my own thoughts. Is there anything called freedom? Where you know the ground that you stand on, understand the decisions you plan on taking? I heard you saying, “we are the choices we make,” as you dragged your toe drawing patterns on the dusty floor. I suppose that you believed in what you said. Did you really give me a choice? I look around, I don’t see any options. Did they get lost in spring cleaning I did last year? Stale cheap perfume in the air mingles with perspiration.

“Oh, I did not notice it has been raining.” Perhaps, the right words to come out in a time like this. What has just happened? You pick up the phone and make an unnecessary unimportant call to maybe no one. My mind is a worthless mass of questions, most of which go unanswered. I pick up my clothes a little ashamed, trifle guilty, and fully unloved. You did not waste any time getting to the point, “you better get going, I have a con call.”

The edge of the bed is a currently a rather comforting place to sit. I can hear you in the bathroom, running water and sliding metal. Maybe, one day you’ll offer to take me out for a compensatory lunch, or who knows – even dinner, we can hold hands and gaze at the stars, maybe you’d switch on some of that: “What’s the story morning glory?” music.

You toss my blazer. Clumsily, I try to grab it, withdrawing what little I have left. Unlocking the door, you grab me for a quick kiss. And, I am out on the street walking with a purpose, back to work. The freshly washed streets glow and glisten.

From across, I can see your window, you have switched on more lights. A woman with a bright oversized sweater eyes me as she enters the building with the confidence of owning a key. I turn away trying to steady my beating heart.

A week later, I see your name glowing on my phone, “come over in the next 20, maybe?” I am ringing your doorbell, as you buzz me in my mind toys with the idea of a lunch, or dinner. The lift door opens to swallow me whole.

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