30th July, 2013
A question. Is this freedom? Getting on a motorbike and driving with no tangible agenda, no fixed appointments, no governing timetable? Stopping and starting at will, eating when hungry, sleeping when tired, seeking company when lonely. It sure as hootenanny sounds like it, although I’m wondering about this type of freedom, how far it can be trusted.
Maybe the challenges of recent encounters are sinking in, or perhaps the soaking I received last night driving into Berlin has dampened my spirits as well as my underwear, but FREEDOM? Really, what is it?
Are there many levels of freedom, all of them affording a certain whiff of joy – a waft of Old Spice at the bus stop, hinting at Burt Reynolds heaven without letting you fully lose yourself in the bushy moustache? Are freedom and happiness synonymous? As a white western woman with food, shelter, a vote, a shoe collection and great hair, my basic needs are met, so where does this hunger come from? And where is the all you can eat buffet?
Now, I know I’m on well-trodden crazy paving here, and the cracks are all over the place, but we have to work at our own level, within our own limits, and maybe accepting those limits is itself like getting in line for the salmon mousse.
Yours in contemplation,
P.S. I’m guessing that, ultimately, it’s losing the fear of death that gives you freedom. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m not there yet.