It's as if my wrists are shackled at my waist. And freedom hovers directly in front of me, like a trophy...or a treasure box...or Pandoras box...
All I need do, is release the shackles (I can do it. It's within my control.) and reach out, just a foot or two directly in front of me. But it could be a mile away. Out of reach. The distance between me and freedom...is the chasm of years of being belittled, used, forbidden from thinking or feeling for myself.
I'm unsure, unsteady, having never really reached out...for anything. I'm used to my hands at my sides, disabled, crunched against me, held back, manipulated, taught that I was useless, that my arms weren't really mine to do with as I pleased. My hands made to touch things I didn't want to touch. Fingers made to go places fingers werent meant to go. So much disgust, foul, made to dos, forces and being forced. My arms were never mine to move and do as I pleased, my hands, and the rest of me.
Oh, I feel such atrembling of struggle, everywhere. I've worn this strait jacket so long, it's turned into security, or rather, the monster I'm familiar with. Like I've lived within these four walls of peeling, weeping plaster and paint. It's all I have known. Gotten used to it. Hard to think about leaving a familiar, well-aged state of mind. Don't know if I can do it. Don't know whats out there. It's hard...jumping off the familiar, crumbling building into the open, unknown air.
Just thinking out loud. Not sure I'd know what to do if I felt freedom....like walking onto an alien planet......
