Freedom

It's in the air, in the desperate heaving of one's chest. Yet to be seen but being felt by the passage of time. Look for it, scavenge and twist the bones of those long gone, gnawing away for a taste of it. So curious. A wisp of a taste of it lingers on the tongue, floating on the taste buds like the most ancient of delicacies. Grab for it! Chase it for eternity, yet shackled at the ankles by the earth, deprived of sense and driven insane by the very body you reside in. Claw at it until your fingers bleed, trembling and numb to touch. Scream with the wind, until your voice is hoarse and not a whisper escapes. Clutch at your chest again, there is nothing; it is empty and dead, a shell of what you once were. A dream of something and nothing at all, a thought. Now what is it you see, what can you feel? What is that sound, that smell? Faceless and thoughtless, it enters the mind, scrambling for a reason, a vice, yet there is what there always will be. Nothing.