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It must seem an unreachable fantasy to those who lack the
freedoms
to sing into the clouded skies as they realise their lifetime of dreams,
despite the relentless hammering of the jealousy-filled voices below.
Who can reach out their delicate fingers,
and simply caress the horizons of human existence itself.
The societies with such freedoms must be further classified
into those blessed with the nature of empathy,
and those blinded by their own hungry thirst
for all-encompassing power.
Only those of the former division can choose to shape existence
into something regarded as truly
equal.
At least, for those who are human.
Perhaps more human
than they may ever see or realise.
Oh, to be given the chance to wear a dainty, golden bracelet around a softened wrist.
The dazzling circlet bestowing upon them the
right
to carve the heavy, relentless stone for themselves, and by themselves.
Oh, to reach
Liberty.
Her glorious call; crafted only to reach the ears of those who realise the trueness of the
devastation
in a new world tainted by the unyielding slashes of…
What is it to blame, exactly?
Jealousy? Selfishness? Hedonism? Hubris? Malevolence?
Who must it be to blame, then, for the corruption
we mortals experience as injustice, conflict and loss?
A pointing finger at poor Prometheus.
Liberty undoubtedly deems it far less human in nature to denounce such an
accusation
upon a mighty being so assured of crafting all freedoms;
to create legendary storylines previously unheard of.
And yet it seems to be…
those crafted to hear Her call must somehow be deemed closer to Her bloodied palms.
All the while, the ringing in their ears escalate to a deafening crescendo;
“Mark my words, my child!
All that will ever save your tortured soul from this Hell
will come as the release you deserved from the very beginning.”
How can it be, then, that such myth must fulfil the mortal desire for
redemption?
It might just be the
paradox.
A dynamic between a mortal and its creator;
eternally codependent.
A cold tear bubbles,
trickles down Her soft features.
A day to remember for Liberty.
She watches carefully. Her aged bones now agitate
with pure, and shamelessly unmasked agony.
Masses begin to believe that existence itself attains a sole
purpose.
To serve those higher.
Those regarded wealthier, stronger, smarter and braver than humanity itself.
FABRICATIONS OF OUR COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUSNESS
NOW EXTENDING TO THE PHYSICAL TO TORTURE US ALL.
And yet it must be known:
whatever becomes of this hellish self-perpetuation…
You
are
Liberty.
Written by Huna Moghaddar
Author
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