Freedom and the Ties that Bind

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose

Nothing, aint worth nothing, but its free (*)

Today, a Hyacinth sits on the window sill of my bedroom window, and its soft scent drifts from there to permeate the house. It carries its own memories, and they intertwine with mine.

Of all the prisons of the mind, those borne out of obligation and loving kindness bind the deepest.

What gifts do you have left, when all your gifts have been given?

What gifts do you have left to give, when every gift chains tighter?

Dying is the only way

For you to float free (**)

Freedom is the only gift that remains.

but Freedom cannot stand the sight of its walls, 

cannot bear the sound of its chains, 

shivers at the feel of its bars.

If the gift of Freedom is to forever release the receiver,

Then it must send the giver to exile, that curious form of dying-in-life.

It is a gift that cannot be explained.

It demands a cold, clean cut and does not permit regret.

This lonely gift that causes pain for both the giver and the receiver is soon overcome by the former, is a permanent loss for the latter.

So.

Having given everything else I finally came to understand that the time for the final gift had come.

Today, I remember that gift, and hope that its outcome has blossomed, even if the vacuum will never be filled.

Yet memories delight, and unlike the fragrance of the hyacinth, which must pass forever:  her fragrance is ever near, and every day's little pleasure.

* Kris Kristofferson - Me and Bobby McGee
** Haruki Murakami - The Wind-up Bird Chronicle