Monday, November 30, 2009
I have freedom, in a way. I can come and go at any time, and eventually my parents will stop yelling, stop asking questions. If something gets too much, I can leave and find a different place to stay. I can walk out, I can walk in. I can basically do what I wish. This is freedom, is it not?
But what most don't realize when they see my freedom, when I smile and tell them I can go anywhere, do whatever, and get few protests, if any, is that my freedom is partly born of sadness, and my smile is slightly bitter at the edges. It's all like a picture with burnt edges. You, the onlooker, see it in a gilded frame. You only see the picture's center, whatever it may be. A butterfly? A colorful, flowering meadow? Happiness, surely. But me, being the owner of the picture, I see the middle, and how beautiful the picture is, but I also know the burnt edges, the smudge of soot that is hidden behind the gilded frame you view the very same picture in. I see the singes, the scorch marks.
What are these singes, scorched paper, smudges of soot? They are the bitterness of this freedom I have, for I have this freedom simply because I have accomplished something that not many people dare to, it seems. I have made my parents, caretakers, and anyone who tries to watch over me give up. I have made them realize that they can't control me, they can't force me to do something I don't want to do. That if they try, it's a waste because I'll ignore them completely and they'll lose anyways.
So I call my freedom bitter-sweet. I can go wherever, whenever I want, really, all because they can't do anything about it. They don't care to anymore.
And I think that's a bit worse than having them control when and where I go.