Freedom

There's a latch to the levee of my thoughts. I presumed I had been the dilligent custodian by keeping the key to this latch in a secure place at all times. But I only recently realized the key was absolutely futile. All this time I thought I was controlling the boisterous parade of semantics and promiscuous morphemes with a shiny object. But the key didn't lock and unlock the latch. The latch didn't even need a key. Thoughts were gleefully escaping, often in the early morning hours around 4am, and at other random times of the day, with a simple nudge of the latch's lever. And once out, thoughts danced in the streets, colluding with strays from nearby towns and building their own renditions of domesticity. The panopticon's reach was, in fact, limited. Once I realized my mistake, I wondered: What if I just let the thoughts go, including the misfits and vagabonds, the anarchists and philistines. Would they come back? Would they become feral? Would they lose their way without my precious narrative arc? Maybe they wreak havoc. Maybe they build castles in the sky. And fig-tree lined cities where pedestrians and bicyclists wave affably at one another and adults slow their roll to let their kids pet the panthers next door. Maybe they put their skates on and cruise down alleways and callejónes looking for love. Or lemonade. And maybe they find it. They may bruise a knee or two from a fall here and there, but then how would they have met the garrulous fruit stand owner and discovered his perfectly ripe cherries had they not put their skates back on? Had I not let the latch go?

I choose to rejoice with them, at the top of my lungs with my chest out and chin up, "Hallelujah, you found love!"