F for Freedom

“A First Sign of the Beginning of Understanding is the Wish to Die.”

- Franz Kafka.

When I was younger, I was practically glued to my bike.
Be it a humid, suffocating summer's day,
The air vibrating in the heat,
Wobbling mirages dancing beneath hot cars,
Or be it during those long, dark winter months,
Frozen lakes and muted carols,
Frosty roads flowing like rivers,
Through the city I knew by heart,
Past every brick, every inviting wreath-hung door.
I rode my bike everywhere.

Inevitably, I crossed the same bridge on my ventures,
Curiously tilting my head towards the water below,
My big eyes peering down at the murky current,
Flowing easily and recklessly,
Without even the slightest hesitation.
I think I was struck with awe,
Concealed as a primal fear;
Stiff hairs stood upright like nails on my arms,
My skin morphed into prickled flesh,
A single yet glacial shiver down my spine,
As the image in my mind unfurled with sudden clarity.

I could operate and steer my bike very well;
A slight flick of the hand, a trivial steer to the left,
Wouldn't even be an issue.
Even now, decades later,
I can still imagine how the cold railing
Would burrow into my abdomen,
My body would be set free to twist and turn in the air,
My hair would try to cling on to the gushing wind,
My eyes would calculate where my corpse would fall,
My skin would shrivel in preparation
For the icy water that would envelop me as I plunged,
And my mind would soar.

Alas, the bridge was crossed;
Life carried on before and past it.
I sprouted and grew into a woman,
My brain developed millions of neurons since,
My eyes lost their shimmer and grew tired,
My forehead wrinkled.
I figured it out- the adulting thing;
Found peace in comfort and dimly lit corners,
Convinced myself I liked chess and books and crocheting,
And not painting or sandcastles or making messes.
That love is pragmatic and not romantic,
That friends break your heart from time to time,
And when they do, you cry silently
Into your pillow at 2 AM.
The street lights flicker mockingly,
Matching the beat of your muffled tears.

You live and you learn, as they say.
You also shouldn't fear death-
Because it's natural.
But you also shouldn't long for death-
That's unnatural.
And I followed the unnatural doctrine,
Straightened my edges from within,
Lubricated my fears and smudged them,
Until they only resembled a single letter,
"F..."
"Fearless," "Fierce," "Forgiving," "Festive," "Flourishing."
My vocabulary of replacements is plentiful,
Yet when I scratch the letters,
The black ink cracks and peels, then rearranges.
"F" becomes "fear,"
"Fear" becomes "freedom."

As the crevices in the ink open wider,
A bridge over murky, treacherous waters
Unravels behind the letters-
The bitter foam on the surface,
The cold railing coated in water droplets,
Then the promise of release and freedom,
That never stops calling for me.

In every echo of waves that bounce off the walls
Under the curved bridge,

It inflates and reverberates.

Mostly, the noise of my many endeavors-
Occasional dreams and achievements,
Deafening smiles and laughter,
Casts a quiet shadow over the bridge.
But sometimes,
When I'm caught in the in-between,
When I stop running to catch my breath,
Or during the brief silence when switching songs on Spotify,
I hear it, just as clearly
As before decades passed.

I can't help but wonder if one day,
When my neurons become so many
That they’re all tangled and mashed together,
And my understanding of the world,
Accompanied by age and wisdom,
Is a little wider,
And my heart is finally shriveled and bitter,
Will I take my bike for that one last joyride,
Venture out to my long-awaited bridge,
And tilt my head towards the water below,
Where that same, murky current rages,
Unhalted, unwavering.

Will I imagine the cold railing
Burrowing into my abdomen,
As I slowly follow its beguiling trajectory with my eyes,
Gazing towards the end of the bridge
And the continuation of life.
A rigid line,
On that fateful bridge which I,
At last,
Would no longer cross.