I don’t know if that’s ‘Free’, to me,

For some, a sense of being Free

is that of roaming in the open air carelessly,

aimlessly, because-it-doesn’t-matterly

Of running on bare feet, across a white sandy beach,

against the softly-blowing wind

Of leaping off a cliff, thirty-feet above the sea,

diving into blue ocean cool that washes off tropical heat..

… that must be Free


I don’t know if that’s Free,

to me,

or a temporary release from a metropolist routine

If that’s Free,

to me,

or mere pumping adrenaline, rushing dopamine, from a kind of life not often lived

Like paragliding, wild-berry picking, star-gazing,

dragonfly-catching, being okay with dying

Funnily, to me, what I know about Free,


I find behind pink-painted walls that were meant to be peach

Where a flat sponge cake from egg whites half-beat is still served on royal tiers

Where coffee is best half-warm because somebody has let the boiled water cool chatting

Because every corner of a room is an ingredient for a good talk recipe

For the best potpourri of honest silences, peaceful disagrees and harmless mockeries


You see, to let imperfections be seen, to remain guarded as beauty is,

to me,


Where hearts are laid down carefully,

the broken, the healing, the failed-to-be-concealed

Where faith, or not, in God is not left out of grace-saying

even when served half-chilled

And nobody cares if the glass is half full or empty

as much as that someone’s INTJ, ENFP, ESFJ, ISTP, INTP, INFP or XXXP

Because having strong opinions is not nearly as important as holding up a firm identity


To know who one is, to be recognized for that is,

to me,


Imagine where heads and feet lazily meet

on a hand-me-down embroidered couch covered with worn-out sheets

Full of dry stains of spilled wine from bouncing over someone’s new promise ring

or raging over another’s news of disloyalty

Atop cushions that are warmly dented from accommodating tear-drying,

light hand-touching, impromptu counseling over ice cream


Now the right to feel completely, the right to truly be is,

to me,


Behind pink-painted walls that are decorated every section differently to honor diversity

That preserve smudges from pushed out chairs making space for those inside joke assemblies

That echo our distinct sounds of laughter and merge them into a timeless symphony,

Are eyes that see only the perfect shade of peach

Are live portraits of being just as we should be


You see, to love unconditionally, to be loved without boundaries is,






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