Freedom Is Slavery

I told them all, freedom of thought was a problem. That by being so free we were all trapped, enslaved by our own desires. Without thoughts we would truly be free to be ourselves. To live as truly intended. The higher ups agree with me and I know it. In the courts when we are forced to watch trails and hangings and the children turn their heads away the higher ups click their tongues. Note the names. Those children will not live long. I remember my first day in court. I saw a mans face turn blue and tongue protrude, and I knew that he was free. He no longer thought. But there was the dilemma, he was free but not alive. Even at seven I knew this was a problem. When I came of age I talked to the higher ups. I told them what I wanted. How I wanted to be free. And they said they could help me. The surgery didn't take. I don't think I'd be able to write this if it did. But immediately before the surgery I did write this-

Thoughts are like shackles
They bind you to desires
when you are covered in chains
you are not free

my thoughts dragged me to the bottoms of oceans
I could not swim up to breathe

But then the key was inserted
and all the locks fell away

I no longer question exactly how to feel, or what to say
I no longer have my own thoughts
and it's best this way

I no longer struggle beneath calm waters
every moment is a sunny day

Some question how I can feel so free
And I respond the one enslaved is them
not me.

I don't know what I thought. That maybe I'd become the poster child for the surgery. That maybe it would all be big. Maybe one day I would be in the books. Of course no one would need the books if they didn't think for themselves. They wouldn't spend hours upon hours memorizing the scripture to prevent them from doing what is forbidden. And it would all be thanks to me. My poem would be published along with a picture of me post operation looking happy, looking peaceful. Of course that's wrong of me... to want recognition. If anything I have more thoughts of my own now. I don't know why this is. But it's terrifying. I've begun to question things. Even the higher ups. But of course this means nothing now. I still have my own thoughts. Sometimes I even hear voices. Especially at night. It swirls around and around circling the drain out through my own mouth and sometimes my own voice speaks the words into the air. Sometimes it's not my voice and the words engulf me in a storm. The voices shriek and set my teeth on edge. They tell me; I wont live long.

I hope it snows soon.

An old man stands by the entrance. The cigarette between his fingers is slowly falling apart. As it becomes shorter and shorter so do the breaks he takes between each drag. He senses the approaching end. The doors slide open, close. Nameless, faceless, strangers leave and enter without much time between the two. The only difference is when they leave their arms are laden with plastic sacks straining to contain their bulging insides, the repeating logo printed on the bag expanded past recognition. They turn away from the old man. He calls to them. But they pretend not to hear. They’re engrossed in the glowing screens before them, or a tassel hanging from their hat -recently dragged out of a musky closet- or maybe just a thought suddenly occurring to them, conveniently. Things are much too loud for them to hear the man’s insistent crackling voice. Much too loud on this muted, muffled night. Cars swoosh past on a nearby highway, surpassing the speed limit. The neon sign buzzes overhead trying to push back the suffocating darkness. Empty straw nests are nestled in its nooks. Casting shadows through the twigs every time the middle letter shorts, and restarts, giant abandoned homes of winged creatures expand on the walls -a clearer signal of what the store offers then the glowing name. The display is distorted by white blobs that float through the air lazily drifting before settling to the ground, forming numerous piles and shapes all instantly mingling with the dirty slush. The fresh white will soon be stained brown like the layers underneath it. Old and new mingling in the worst way. The air inside the car is changing. Slowly the warmth that radiated from the vents is being leeched away by the creeping cold. The fight is weighted heavily in favor of the cold as it sinks into the steering wheel. The inside of the car is quite a contrast to the snowy soft outside. Sharp corners. Hard plastic. Seats that skin sticks to. Consciously cleaned, specifically stylized. No place for the light snow, or the sneaking cold. Suddenly the old man realizes he is being watched. His head swerves and his eyes meet mine through the fogging glass. The dashboard almost shatters under his sharp gaze. His stare shoots through me like a bullet and my thoughts scatter like my insides would. After a moment I realize he doesn't really see me. At least not clearly. Like the drifting white all around I am not quite solid to him. I am not yet a pile of slush slowly becoming dirty sludge. I float; an unrecognizable shape, avoiding the sharp corners and the sticky seat, soon to be melted by heat that will escape the vent when a key sparks the ignition.

Cards of Darkness and strategy games

The natives were of no concern to me. As they were not real. My only goal was to win the game. At first I wondered if there was a trick – a secret to beating the game. I thought through strategies. I thought Mr. Lindsey likes video games. In video games if you choose the nice options like not harvesting ‘Little Sisters’ for the maximum amount of eve in Bioshock 2 and instead having them thank you and crawl away giving you less eve therefore less chances of upgrading your skills, good things happen. Like your daughter doesn’t kill you in cold blood. Or if you don’t steal random things or kill many people in Fall Out 3 you get good Karma which helps in numerous ways even if you have to run from scavengers instead of giving them what they deserve. But then I realized this was not a video game. These were cards. Mr. Lindsay made this up over Christmas. There is no way that much time spent near relatives in close inescapable quarters would lead anyone to create a game that encourages a true and honest path. So that’s when my team and I got to work. We pressed the natives from the get go. We realized there was no way for us to get resources without using force. We took our chances with the Native Relations pile and we used our ammo unsparingly. We fell into a lulling routine. Quickly gaining and losing our resources and tainting our native relations pile with clubs. We were power hungry. We wanted those diamond cards. Much like Romeo portrayed by Leonardo Dicaprio in the death scene of the 1996 version of Romeo and Juliet we had nothing left to lose.

Except our ammo. And when we were out of ammo; we had our precious diamonds taken from us. One by one our beautiful resources pile was diminished. It was painful. Each Diamond card removed from the deck to satisfy angry natives or recover from rainy weather was unwillingly given up. Shaky hands replaced the resources back in the hands of the now livid natives. And almost at the end of our second to last round was when I had my realization.

this was my face after the realization

IT WAS ALL CHANCE. Dang it. There was no strategy. Even if you had the worst strategy in the world if your weather was great and your natives were happy (even if you had been mean to them) you would win. THE ONLY THING YOU NEEDED TO WIN THE GAME WAS GOOD LUCK. (Or a cheater’s shuffle who knows – I mean I’m not pointing fingers at any other teams but…) 

I realize I got a bit caught up in the game. I wanted to win. I wanted resources.
I thought a while. Would I really act like this if put in a real life situation similar to it? And the answer was no. I could never threaten another person for no reason. Just like I could never actually skin and kill an animal like I was forced to do in Far Cry 3 to survive. Or if I was faced with zombies like I was in Left 4 Dead? I would be alone in a bathtub crying while the AI fought the zombies eventually leaving me alone as they were killed off one by one. And then I would die - because I would probably startle a witch. 

this is how cool we looked

It's important for me to remember it was just a game. I acted like a horrible person. We did get a hella rad amount of resources though. If it had been real? And I was a stone cold witch? I would say we did a pretty good job.