"Freedom?" by Isha Hussein

What is freedom but an elusive concept, a word we bravely utter while struggling to digest its bittersweet flavor? It feels like something we inherently deserve, a flag we wave high, yet worn and tattered from the weight of countless unfulfilled promises and the blood spilled in vain. Are we truly free if the deafening voices inside our heads shackle us, their relentless shouting drowning out our deepest desires to live fully? Can we claim to be free while entrapped by invisible chains, the burden of a world that dictates every breath we take, every dream we dare to imagine, every moment we long to break free?

Is freedom merely the dream of stepping outside into the sun, feeling the air kiss our skin, rather than the stale, suffocating confines of our own minds? Those minds that keep us bound, encased in a prison constructed from self-doubt, paralyzing fear, and an overwhelming list of expectations we never asked to carry? Each morning as we awake, we harbor a desperate hope for escape. Yet, the doors to our metaphorical cages remain firmly locked, leaving us with the haunting echoes of lives we might have lived, adventures we might have pursued, yet still feel out of reach, too costly for our limited means to grasp.

What, then, is freedom, if not the comforting lie we spin to ourselves an intricate tale to make our rusted chains feel like a part of our identity, a soothing narrative to convince ourselves that this cage, with its familiar bars and shadowed corners, can somehow feel like home?