She lost her freedom

Written by lcurdav

This work was last updated October 3, 2019


This story that I am going to tell you will surely reach you several years later. Or so I hope. Otherwise, we’re still sorrowful by what has happened.

There was a girl around here who used to adore the winds, for it was those who molded her entire body. Unfortunately, as of today, no one remembers her name, but from her image it has always been possible to recall even the slightest details. Her face couldn’t have been traced by painters and imagined by writers, since it sustained an ethereal body, covered only with an elegant dress of fine cloth, delineating, girded to them, the bulges that made her figure a slender work of nature. The wind felt a great admiration at seeing her for the first time. He didn’t need to remember, but he lived each of his memories next to her and all because they shared the same freedom. People admired them and envied them for the freedom that they grew together, but she was even more passionate in her freedom and what she could do with it. She was small but her mind was enormous, she traveled in a flurry leaving her aura behind her, always on the fringes of curious looks, always free, even of herself. In return for her great devotion and the excitement that characterized her, the wind enabled her to fly over the mountains and glide over the oceans.

When she opened her wings for the first time, all the silences around her weighed upon her shoulders. The sky was authorizing her to fly. The sweet air that she breathed that day brought her tranquility, but also a tender warmth in her soul. It felt so fresh and so pleasant, she felt it, she enjoyed it and she desired it. The curtain was infinite behind the translucent interlacing of green leaves and high trees. It was when she began to gain momentum that she felt herself sinking into the sky with her soul, in the lukewarm stillness that pierced by every meter of flying height. She floated already turned into brightness and beauty, higher and higher towards the azure that flooded her. Later, she arrived slowly, humble and tired, to the trill of the birds and the lively green of the leaves. People celebrated from the first of her exploits, all except a minority.

She lived surrounded by the collective of mediocrity, an opposition that had no marks to identify them. There were no numbers, no letters, no signs printed on their flesh as a warning. The mediocrity was plural and knew no truce. Regardless of how they had no higher aspirations, they fed on passions, dreams and daily quarrels. They scrutinized the fears, the trembling vanity, the envy, the coarse desire that arose to all beings from the abyss.
They couldn’t stand her flying free across the skies. The mediocrity wanted to throw her under a bridge so that she would live shattered, banished from others and condemned to stumble upon her shadow in every moment. They wanted her caged and suppressed.
They decided to make her believe that she was alone.

“The solitude is looking for you. She comes wearing her best evening dress, just like yours. It will be the bad habit that will feed you and take care of you for the rest of your life. It will take away your innocence, your clarity, your smile and even your freedom. Once it catches you, you won’t be able to escape. You will be a spectator of the great devourer, who will ruin the curtains of all your dreams. You will be in that instant the reflection of your tired attempts, your fallen battles… The hours will run, and you will turn ashes… Your shadow will be the one that will grow and droop until it bends down to take you to a place called misery. If you don’t want this to happen to you, run away, and never come back here. The wind, and absolutely no one else will help you. Get out of here and save yourself.”
She was conceded that life would never smile back at her. They watched her cry without feeling a shred of remorse so that she would be lost forever. She hid her breasts so that they would not notice the blood that her soul shard.

She started beating herself up. She would not let anyone touch her legs because they had been brutally beaten by her own fists, as well as her belly; for if she did not, she would feel guilty. Yet she never touched her wings.
She just wanted to love the wind, freely.

She ended up selling her solitude for a plate of something they made her believe was affection; and it was nothing but waste, a futile pantomime; a bad mimic of the highest of human feelings...

Today she no longer flies. In fact, she hates the winds.

They have accomplished their task. Now she can no longer fly.

Tags: her, lost, she, Short story, poetic, fly, mediocrity, wings, wind, solitude, fall from grace, bad advice, freedom

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