The Revival of Freedom

Heartbeats echo like footsteps down a cobblestone alley.

Can you hear them?

.

A fist, invisible to the naked eye, clenches my throat.

Can you hear me?

.

Hoarse breaths, barely escaped past my lips, leaving an icy fog in their wake.

Can you see it?

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My hands are tied, no words can spill forth from my fingertips.

Did you know?

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Silence. It’s strictly enforced.

My will was thoroughly coerced.

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This is the death of Freedom.

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Where the formerly pristine parchment pages of a book,

Become nothing more than curled black ash.

.

The acrid smell of sulfur lingers,

Where the artists’ canvas, brush, and pigments are tossed upon the pyre.

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Typewriter ribbons lay in shreds,

Keyboards re-acquisitioned to spread propaganda.

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No further expression by spraying a creation into existence upon the blankness of brick.

Murals become whitewashed, cans of paint crushed beneath the boot of tyranny.

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This is the death of Free Speech.

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Joyous melody, now forbidden.

Where the songstress is muted, imprisoned for the lyrics birthed upon her tongue.

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Musicians watch in stunned horror as their wooden extensions of self

Become kindling for the fire.

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This is the death of Expression.

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You must adhere to the mindset of the masses.

Creativity is not to be rewarded, nor encouraged.

.

How we shall birth innovation going forward is not to be considered.

For we have entered the Orwellian land of 1984,

The truth is classified, censored, concealed, forbidden.

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Contraband promoting expression must be smuggled.

Unique articulation is prohibited.

Every invention must remain out of sight.

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The revolting Prole must stealthily forge their talents under the cloak of night

For fear of retribution both swift and violent.

Yet despite their terror, the power to create still burns within.

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Their passions cannot be permanently quelled.

The very nature of revolution lives within the veins of an artist.

Boot leather will never overpower the fire that courses within.

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They can stomp, spray, beat, yet never truly kill

For the soul of a creator lives on in infinite incarnations

And the everlasting spark of invention pulses eternally.

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A lonely note drifts upon the breeze,

Smudges of paint transform the interior of a closet into that of a summer garden.

Underlined words of a news script are repurposed into oppositional lyrics.

A wooden bowl becomes an improvised drum.

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The power of each fiery spirit increases with every connection.

It becomes a tangible force,

Listen to it thrum.

The very Earth below seemingly shivers underfoot with the energy flowing forth in anticipation.

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Under a starry sky, the dreamers arise without warning.

Reclaiming, reimagining, reinvigorating their communities.

The fat which has risen to the top is deftly skimmed away.

Disposed of into the gray prisons of their own creation.

Freedom has replaced dictatorship.

Each voice may rise in a musical triumph.

The ink from every pen may flow.

Presses will print, new volumes will soon be bound.

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Every spray can and paintbrush will beautify

While the acoustic notes of the musicians drift through open windows, mingling on the breeze.

I am immersed in the empowering atmosphere of our Bohemian celebration.

Colorful murals adorn the alleyways once more.

.

An inspirational symphony rises in the distance

As an exuberant parade of dancers flows throughout the city streets.

The liberation of humankind is, perhaps for the first time ever, complete.

Kindness now reigns, oppression vanished.

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Decisions are made of our own volition,

Our tongues are no longer held in silence.

The bravest among us provoked sedition,

With determined effort, we completed this mission.

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The artists’ brushes are no longer still,

Melodic tunes freely play.

Now the tappers dance in the stone alley, sweat trickling down their brows.

Their heartbeats pumping with exertion.

Can you hear it?

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A hand, strong, firm, and reassuring takes mine as we join in the festivities.

We gaze around in wonder. We have won.

Our voices rise in chorus,

“This is the re-birth of freedom!”

Will you join us?

...

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This was originally published on Medium.

Featured photo by Rachel Hinman via Flickr.