The Cost of Freedom

We start with the Public.

That is the outer face, the mask that we wear,

A web of skin that can peel apart at any time

But can fuse tightly when never taken off.

Next we have the Fiction.

This is the tricky fantasy that we believe

It is the world we inhabit, that hides

Corners and holes we trip into blindly.

After that is the Angel.

We seek salvation from this broken person

Or object, or job, or technological gadget,

And only a shiny veneer separates us from disappointment.

The ending is not part of the tale

It could be Collapse

Or a Manual Reset.

But a better ending comes with Truth,

Scraping away the outward sheen until we see ourselves dead,

Taking our life away until we surrender to be reborn,

Not to walk again in the illusions of the carnival midway,

But to breathe the sharp, stinging air of freedom, unafraid.