Freedom

Two weeks.

I am the feather on the crest of a jet stream, flying at four hundred miles per hour. The world is zipping past me like a multicolored projector gone hyper. Images flicker, disappear, distort. My mind is no longer here, nor there, nowhere …

The freedom of choice.

You walk down the street, you want to hurt someone, the boiling rage of teenage blood, they don’t understand you, they never will. All of them, tagging along each other, so co-operative.

Yes Md. Tramells, I do have a spare fly-pack …Oh you can give it back to me anytime … how is Duddles, oh that cute little boy …Did you hear about the latest cerise colored hairdryer ……… I so want to be a Kamena Girl.

Take your cerise hairdryer and stuff it into Duddles, Mother. Maybe that slobbering fat pound of living flesh will stop drooling at everything. Maybe the Kamena people will do it for you. They do half of the things for the world anyway. Kamena … the dream of every person, they supply you dreams to pack in the leftover bag for vacuum cleaner trash and then wait for more dreams. The idea of free choice, the right to choose, Kamena will give you all, Kamena will give you things that are not Kamena as well.

One-and-a-half weeks.

I am the droplet of water hanging from a huge redwood tree at the artificial rainforests of North America. Ready to float down with an acceleration of two meters per second square. My entire life is composed of exactly ten seconds of green, blue, orange, cyan, magenta slipping all around me. I am reflection all that there is, because to me all I can see is all that there is. A small distorted version of the world around me exists inside me, exactly for ten seconds. Plop.

To be free of all burdens, all expectations, all choices, all requirements. To live like the air slipping through the nooks of the world unseen, yet felt everywhere. Nature the mother, the nurturer, the sustainer … Mother, why did you send me away. I don’t want to grow up. I will look after Duddles, I will wish Md. Jenkins, I will go to meditation circles, I will serve the aged and the childish. I will conform. No mother I did not understand what you told me. To be truly free, you must break all your bonds. I don’t want to break from you mother or from Duddles. Please mother, take me back, please …

One week.

I am the piece of broken hair lying on the birthday cake of a Prima Donna. I am the cake, the cream, the sugar, the flour and the icing. I am the cake, I belong to it……… Am I? Am I not the canker in this beauty of human creation? Am I not an error, a discrepancy, an unwanted glitch in the way that things should be? A thing to be frowned upon, brushed off? But I am embedded into the cream, the icing, the sugar. I cannot be removed by without disfiguring the cake. So my portion will be discreetly cut off and thrown into a recycler. I am the unwanted part ………

Do I really know who I am? “Camellita, Camellita, Camellita, you poor dear” says the floating droplet. “Just look at you, abandoned, filled with self pity and crying with no one to comfort you.” The droplet merges into the ground, its identity lost and yet I retain the memory of the one statement … Poor dear, self pity … Is that what I am? Who Am I? Camellita Tramells, Id, no 10485467. There is no ID marker here, only miles of greenery surrounding this beautiful piece of Earth. This uncontrolled portion of Earth where the freedom of choice has found its purest mode of expression, there are no rules here, just existence, unbounded by any control. I am the canker here, the unwanted part, the part that must be discreetly cut off and removed from sight. I was removed from my home. I must be removed from here as well …

Half-a-week.

I am the white thing that forms in the corners of your mouth, a byproduct, a waste, not worth any consideration. The foam composed of excretions of the human body, the rejection from a living, successful mechanism, to be washed off and forgotten. Not worth any consideration ………

Walking through the wall of forest, free of all cares, burdens, troubles. Camellita! Camellita is not here. She is still sitting in that quite corner of the forest with her face down staring at the droplet that merged into the ground with a thousand conflicting images trapped in her mind. I am no one, I am not Pamela Tramell’s daughter, I am not Duddles’ sister, I am not Md. Jenkins’ neighboring troublesome teen. I am not ID no 10485467. I am free because I have gone away. I have died. I am born. I am the undead. I am the living. I am the feather on the crest of a jet stream spreading the news of hope, spreading the news that the powerful and the soft go together. I am the drop of water floating down to ground, I am an image of the world that exists all around, a composite beauty compressed in time and space to show the living that the universe is both big and small, that there is power in the small to encompass the big. I am the piece of broken hair in the cake, to be cut away. Yet I am the cake and the without me that cake is incomplete telling all that the discrepancy, the error is not a thing to be removed but an essentiality. But I do not speak. I cannot speak. I am to be realized.

Time.

On 2350 hours, Camellita Tramells died. She entered the troubled stage early and was sent to “grow” up before schedule. Our condolences to her brothe, Duddles.

We have new citizen among us Pristina Valkyries, born at 2351 hours. She is to become the governess of space transmissions in Tamara Province. She has also wished to remain single for the time being so she maybe addressed as Si. Valkyries.

Transformation Report:

“To be truly free, you must break all you bonds”

The growing up if a human bio-system is a very mental process. Born from the mother’s body, the human has a bio-mental link up with a family structure that may hamper the mind’s true development. So they have to be “grown”. Camellita Tramells was sent to the North American Redwood sanctuary to “grow” up. Her early entry into the troubled stage of life where illogical emotions and hyper-detailed imaginations plague one’s mind forced this unscheduled “growing”. One-and-a-half days were required for the transformation in which she passed through phases of distortion, self pity and rejection. The she died.

Pristina Valkyries was extracted from North American Redwood Sanctuary today. She is a free individual of the United Republic of Earth. She will be joining the profession of her choice (a space transmission governess) as soon as she completes her training.

End of report.

A neo-feminist story about freedom and its meaning. Most of it is in abstract because it was planned in abstract. In my opinion the meaning of abstract is in the mind of the reader. It also has elements of Science Fiction albeit social in nature, SF was my first love and the reason for even thinking about writing for the first time