Freedom.

The soft wind envelops my un-cuffed body. I feel warm and safe. The field before me is boundless, as is my joy at the thought of running in it. Although I think it’s called “frolicking” when you’re doing it in a happy state. What are the other words? “Prancing” is one. Skipping…sashaying…gamboling…flouncing…darting…leaping and bounding. I can’t wait to do all these things.

Imagine.

John Lennon finally makes sense to me. I’m living his dream. I finally broke free of the restraints that have given me cause to rebel. Now I’m free and don’t need to rebel. The air is getting softer by the minute.

Time.

I have so much of it now. I feel the stress leaving my body, leaving my body young. I can do anything my heart desires without the fear of carrots and sticks. I’m so happy I’m here.

Love.

This place is beautiful. I can write poems about it for days. Forget publishing. I can truly call myself a writer here. A poet. An artist. There is no one here to refute me.

There is no one here.

The air is so soft now, it has covered my body whole. It has become enmeshed in me completely.

I can’t seem to escape it.

.

.

.

I want to be a poet. I want to be called a poet. I want the carrots. I want the sticks. I want to rebel.

The birds are fleeing.

I want to “run.”

I think I’ll run.