Holding such dreams came with its obstacles. One by one I was challenged, each opponent I faced I had to overcome with sheer grit, determination and most importantly stamina.
How far could I run without stamina weighing me down and would it be far enough to break the boundaries of freedom?
These obstacles revealed themselves to me at the worst of times and on the worst of days like ghosts haunting the fallen. Eventually however these weren't the worst of the foe I had to face. The worst would be one far from the scope of one's mind or rather at the very helm.
Although I was what was "rich" in terms of money, I had no access to it.
The money wasn't mine nor could I use it of my free will. I knew I was wealthy, I knew I was better off than others, like her. But what I didn't know was how it felt to be truly rich.
Rich in happiness.
Status, money, power; all words I hate also words I never once possessed.
Father had complete control of how much I had and what I bought with that money. He carefully and precisely picked each occasion in which to give me something I wanted; in exchange for something he wanted.
Unbeknownst to me at the time - it was blackmail. I was secretly being coerced, as mentioned before a puppet to the puppet master and also the first obstacle I faced.
I was expected to take on the duties of my father.
From the age of four I was constantly being taught certain mannerisms for use in trade and political deals. If I were to use informal (or what they considered informal language) I was swiftly reprimanded with an hour long lecture, filled with rage and comparisons to other kids my age, along with a prohibition from using my art equipment – something which I had saved up for years prior, but was by no means spectacular either.
However this was enough to get on my nerves.
Art was my form of escapism; it would serve as a way to clear my mind in a world where happiness was so hard to find. When it was taken from me, I became lost; a soul in the boundary between life and death, the grim reaper practically banging on the very heart of my existence.
I couldn't bear losing it - my passion, my dream, my heart and for such a stupendous reason, I was baffled and often filled with exasperation at the very thought of it. This however just led to more complications.
Each time I disobeyed what they supposedly asked of me, they found something new to be taken away from me, like a pig in a farm watching its family being shipped off one by one for no particular reason, other than the greedy hunger of humanity. Well the greedy hunger of humanity in this case is status and was definitely not worth all the pain, I reject the very idea of it.
My palettes, my brushes, my erasers, my pencils and eventually the canvas itself – all gone…
I was left with the scar of my shattered dream; no not a scar, an open wound. Bleeding out my identity day by day I was in pain. A phantom lingered throughout my own body, a phantom of dreams and memories however small they were. I was, from what I remember, no longer human; well I guess nothing has changed, has it?
I'm still as lost as I was back then if not even more.
Weak, useless, powerless in a void filled with lost memories and dreams, I was lost – like a nomadic tribe stuck in the scorching hot desert without a new destination – like the lava which lay dormant in inactive volcanoes – like a fly imprisoned in the walls of someone's iron fortress.
I was that one pitiful fly.
If only I could soar out the boundaries and reach the places I had so longed for. The opaque sky at this point wasn't the limit, it was the boundaries of my very home and the day my canvas was taken away I realised I was a prisoner in it.
I had lived life up until this point as the model citizen of upper class scum, I guess it was deserved. We stepped on the lower classes like pests, we trampled over their livelihoods like they were worth as much as the superficial value of money and status.
I personally had never done anything to hurt the poor and never felt responsibility for them either, always thinking it was my parents who were indebted; I became complacent with their treatment.
That was my biggest regret and the loss of my canvas was a punishment from God himself.
The worst organ to strike me - like that of a rapier puncturing through my heart in one swift blow. As if God himself loathed me and wanted nothing more than to see his own creation in agony.The very God who I had lived to idolise and worship was tormenting me - laughing sadistically every time I shed a tear or shrieked. The very God who I was taught to be omnibenevolent was stabbing me in the back.
Did I deserve it? At this point I'm not completely sure. Maybe, maybe not, but in any case the canvas was my very existence the only price to pay.
Wasn't there really anything else? Money could've been a form of repayment.
Again!
I'm thinking like them again. I shouldn't, I won't, and I refuse to lower myself to such blasphemous standards.
And there I go again my thoughts, oh cursed thoughts; I'm plagued by my own mind. Wavering between the intellect of a demon and angel, I'm at standstill once again in my life.
Remembering the day of God's judgement the boy fell into a deep slumber, the past flashed through his deteriorating future as the relentless tides could be heard to wander.
Wander through depths of hell, wander ever so closely to his foreign future and wander like his ever tumultuous thoughts.
A fall from grace.
A fall of freedom.