To Be Free

As I sit in my stuffy office room, I think about what it means to be free.

I dream of life, never paused, outside the window. A dog passes by, and sometimes a butterfly. Maybe a child laughing, holding a drink. Oh, how I wish I was able to be outside.

To be wandering in golden fields, or read under a crooked tree. To possibly even pick berries out within the countryside.

To feel the voice inside of me, Full of joy, full of life, Finally.

But the sound in my heart is drowned from the sounds of customer complaints on my headset, or the rude old clients who shriek, "We ruined the world!"

Did we, though?

"I am not entitled!" I scream into the deaf void. But what ears does it have to listen? "I just want a life that's worth living!"

Is it entitled to dream that maybe I could one day own a home? Working 50 hours a week is still never enough. It's hard enough to keep my bills paid and debts down. Rising prices, with gas and food; and the hell going on out there. Maybe I should be grateful that I just work at home.

I never wanted much, just a small cottage and maybe some chickens. But as the war outside my window thickens, I find it's hard to breathe. 5am panic attacks and tension tamer teas can keep the negativity at bay for now. But with twelve hour shifts and never ending chores, the stress is my only friend.

My mind wanders to fields filled with flowers, or fruits fresh to harvest. A small farm, or homestead maybe, with writing on the side. A break from scrawling my ideas on paper, let's go visit the goats. Fresh milk and cream, and home-baked bread in the oven...

But I fight to turn my ungrateful frown upside down; I get another call. I keep my smile right side up, until the phone conversation ends Back to yearning f0r what's behind the window again.

I sigh, swallowing the dread that creeps up my throat.

What is it like to be free?