Cookie-Dough

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I come back from work, worn out and spent. Each night, I wake up mid-sleep, as if I had never gone to bed.

I walk to the kitchen and start pulling out cans and jars. My eyes don’t even have to see where my hands are going anymore, I remember what bottle lies on which stack just as I know the alphabet.

I follow your recipe to the dot.

The same amount of flour, a cup full of sugar, little chips of chocolate hidden amidst the dough like gems in sand.

But I could never bake them like you did. So by the time I finish, the house starts to feel very empty again, without you and your sweet-smelling cookie dough.

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Each Feather, A Freedom

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A piece of emotionally driven naked Truth; the honest Truth that follows Oppression; the Oppression that plucks my Feathers; Each Feather, a Freedom.

Your freedom is truly yours. Other’s rules can’t govern you. The just of someone else’s subjective understanding cannot stop you. Their words, and sarcasm and accusations can’t cage you. Their laws can’t dictate you.  Their morality is not the law. Their right and wrong, is not your siege, is not your limit, is not and can never be your chain.

When I stand in my balcony and I gaze at the sky, a flock of birds usually passes overhead. Flying, breezing past me. Just like the wind with which it dances. I smile almost every time, but today, I stood and I pondered. What does their flight mean? Just another simple act of nature, with no questions and no spindle-ends to it? No, it wasn’t frivolous, I knew it.

Almost out of the blue, yesterday on my way back home from school, among the many broken, eaten and almost cracked walnut shaped baseballs, and wrappers right in front of my house, was a very pretty butterfly lying on the ground, dead.  Its colour was that of the deep sea, where the sea horse lives, amidst the turquoise and navy.

If I look at the trivial events about me, I might go dim for a moment and revert back to what I was doing. But if I not look but see, there comes to light an unconventionally divine symbolism, from the golden gates of the priest:

“Each wing, is a symbol of freedom. Each feather, each hair- a joyous expression of being free.”

Each wing, is a symbol of freedom. Each feather, each hair, a joyous expression of being free. Each plume, each quill is freedom. Every burst of wind that makes the leaves fall, every laughter, every No to the oppressive and wordy, every rebel, each tear, each answer to every question, every word I write, everything you say and do, nature’s call is freedom.

And if a rule stops me, if a morally correct value, if the right way of doing things, if verdict from the wise and old, if anything at all differs to be, it shall impede my freedom. It shall pluck my wings, it shall curl my feathers. It shall cage me and let me not fly.

What stops me is suppression. What compels me to do what I do not wish to is the oppression of the mainstream; the words of those who are habitual of having dictated and accustomed to be listened to; the power of the one with the higher stature; the poise of the bosom of the one who shall not bend low in hail and storm. What stops my freedom is not the wise lion or the golden tongued virtuous saint, what stops me is the coward fox who would certainly not listen to one who goes against him. What stops me is the decree of those with the cage. A cage rigged with the lilies of beholden favour hidden below the weeds of goodwill.

When this oppression cages me and makes me green, when their tight sword of rules makes me bend and succumb, when it indoctrinates my understanding and subjection, when it takes me in its cubature and paints me a colour of itself, only to release a dummy that runs on its clockwork, and in the release offers me the porch to watch the world I deserve from a distance, grants me the window sill graciously to feel the wind I should be dancing in, presuming I would jump and fail to the ground, then I shall I lift my claw and shed the dust. I shall tremble and take flight again. I fly, for the colour of its rules fails to paint each feather. Each feather, that has somewhere within it the essence of me. My rules. My subjection. My objection. My view. My decree. Each feather that has still a bit of me, each feather with my freedom.

Daily Post: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/11/27/prompt-boldy/

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/11/daily-prompt-never-surrender/