The Weight of Illusions They spoke of freedom, a song sung through iron bars, a gospel etched in chained tongues. But what is freedom when the sky itself is walled by the limits of sight? What is choice when the road is paved by hands unseen, guiding feet not their own? They spoke of impossibility, a phantom draped in certainty, a god crafted from trembling hands that never dared to reach beyond the veil. Yet the sun has never sought permission to rise, nor the tide to return to shore. Who was I to kneel before doubt, to name the cage my home? Once, I knelt before syllogisms carved in stone, before the echoes of failed equations, before the voice that said, not you, not yet. A year stretched into a lifetime, logic failed me before I could fail it. And yet, I stand. Graduated. Moved. Breathed past the fear that tried to etch my fate in dust. Now I see impossibility is an orphan of the mind, a specter fed by those who fear the light. Freedom, its sibling, is a trick of the ey...
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