The sun’s rays were red and gold, the clouds reflected orange and pink. The woman saw the mountains before her in the distance. A soft breeze blew as she closed her eyes and raised her arms to heaven. The reflections on the lake beside her showed distorted hills and sparkling waves, broken only by the trout which jumped and played. Leaves rustled above her head, the wind knocked the brown and rust leaves to the ground, some catching in the woman’s hair. She lowered her arms and rolled into the ground. Her feet in the lake, her body in the soft sand, she felt a strange lightening of her spirit. As she surrendered herself to the call of freedom, her body lay still. Leaves collected in her silver hair. She felt as though she had risen without movement, and, looking down, saw her body on the sand. Her spirit flew and as the rays of sunlight disappeared, she knew she was going home.

A man looked out his window. The purple mountains called to him, he thought they even said his name. As the mountains whispered outside, a young woman screamed behind him. He tried to block out the sounds of intense pain and enjoy the peaceful view from his window. AS the sun set, the mountains became dark blue. The young woman’s screams faded to soft crying. The man turned to see his child being handed to her mother. She was home.

Locked up. What a loaded phrase. Yesterday, a city burned. Tomorrow, who knows.

Today? Well, today my body burns as well.

From a high vantage point, I used to believe I had magic powers. I was going to change the world. And then.

And then.

And then, the world took me down a notch or seventy.

I’m not old, no. I’m young. I’m supposed to be young, and healthy, and strong, and free.

But I’m not. I’m broken. Trapped in body unfit for rebellion. Everything I do takes extra strength, effort, willpower.

Others around me are more locked away than I will ever be, so it’s selfish to feel like I have any right to complain. I am not oppressed. I am not murdered. I am not beaten. I am only sick.

I went from young and excited, an up and comer in the world, to bedridden and nearly dead in just a few short years. My body hosted a revolution the likes of which I never imagined possible. But it isn’t cancer.

That’s what people remind me. Locked up in my pain, my fatigue, my pure exhaustion. It isn’t cancer.

Like that’s a birthday present. I should be grateful I’m dying slowly instead of suddenly.

Except.

I’m grateful for many things. Just not this eternal feeling of being locked up.