Oh Cincinnatus, how your double self draws out a recollection from my deepest recesses–no, quite contrary it merely elucidates what sits on the surface, though denied. For there I am quietly sitting without a care. I stretch forth my limb, these arms reaching towards the distant stars whose twinkling lights laugh and whisper. And on outwards across the earth’s vast plains until, at last , such a wind lifts them. Then upwards I fly. All the chains and ties begin to loosen their grip, daintily I slip out. The shackles fall away, the sound echoing and fade to a distant hum.
I am free and so I soar! There is naught to hold me: no bodily bounds, nor intellectual limits. But no.
Far from that glorious outreach I inwardly curl. Wisps of paper their blackened ends twisting and curling as some unbearable heat consumes it.
The linen that hides me woven so tightly, the knots compressing, choking. There is no glimmer of light betwixt these manacles. So tight, I cannot move, yet still my limbs exercise their joints. Suffocating while that elusive freedom taunts my empty breath. I’m dead within my clouded windows: what mockery of life for those who cannot see their depths. It would be better for emptiness beneath these eyes rather than the ashes of what once dreamed.