by Diane Sprague

The most stifling prison is a room full of people whose opinion has been determined to count. In order to bring about a positive opinion, one must give an enormous amount of time, effort, and sacrifice to arrange one's success. One must take something very real, her own thoughts and experiences, and replace them with her imaginings of their elusive opinions and thoughts. Instead of using one's own ability to reason, observe, and experience, one must surrender her prized human possessions and stupidly accept the worthless replacement: What they appear to think.

Of course, standing behind the prison bars does have its rewards. Occasional one can enjoy the brief movements of approval and build these brief movements into a flimsy tower of reality. “Ah, look at me now. They appear to think I am something grand. I must hold greatness and truth.” This will soon slip away quickly since one have placed her worth and dignity in the hands of the fickle crowd. It can keep coming back if she learns to follow this crowd, sense the waves of attention, and create the winning image. But all the time one spends in following the voices from outside creates an eerie silence within and there is no freedom involved in behavior geared to pleasing what stand outside of who one is.

The prison door stands open, but one must first consider what is involved in stepping through it towards freedom. One ends up in a place where nothing outside of who one is defines one's self. The only place one can look is inside her own mind. Her own thoughts and choices, and her opinions about their value are all that determine who she is. She stands absolutely alone. The freedom involved is overwhelming and difficult. No one may understand; no approval may follow; and the responsibility for one's choices is entirely her own. It is frightening, but a special treasure may await those who choose this freedom.

When one speaks from within this freedom, one's words are entirely one's own. The words may correspond to what others have said throughout the ages, yet even so, something individual will be expressed each time. As one discovers her own words, she may discover that some come from a depth within that she did not even know was there. At first it seems that these words come from someplace else, but what one may discover is that this place is and always has been her only true home.

What are these words from someplace else? I do not know. I am waiting to hear them and I am waiting to write them. Sometimes they feel close and other times they feel impossibly far away. Often they are communicated through images and symbols. Other times they where the clothes of a mediocre devil and plague me with their insipid repetitions and boorishness. Occasionally they just want to be stories. And some nights, while I stare at the computer scene, they promise to stay words that can be communicated through reason. My task is to open myself up to them and see if I can allow them to come out in a coherent manner. Maybe I can or maybe I cannot, but only by trying can I find the possibility of something I would value.

Flower image from Lise's Garden