Freedom Isn’t Free (Homogeneity Well-Attained)

The storm jars me from my slumber,
My hibernation that knows no beginning,
Ended in a jolt,
With thunderous applause,
The universe commending me on achieving the most basic of tasks:
I woke up.

Envy looks out through me,
Catching a glimpse of the bars for the first time,
Tightly pressing against my chest,
Holding back the magnetic attraction to the outsider,
The wild and vibrant ghost of a man,
Unaware of the concrete confines that make up the landscape,
Unapologetic, he refreshes his veins with his personal blend,
Of Not-Quite-Truth serum.
His ghastly form shimmers,
Starts to disappear,
Snaps back, his spider-silk tether traces back to a body,
Geographically adjacent to mine,
With empty and cold eyes,
Watching his freedom dance in the rain.

The addict is freedom incarnate;
The pure transcendence that only absolute freedom can promise.
But humanity, while maybe accidentally designed,
Was cleverly shaped into a manifestation of will,
With a sense of balance;
Toeing the line between me and Me,
Between my name and my dreams.
Lose your balance and you find yourself in the twisting nether,
The realm of addiction to extremity:
The pure bliss of Anything being possible,
Without ever having to be actualized.

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