I keep my eye on the horizon. It stretches forever; I’m not
used to it. I’m used to concrete towers, buildings stretching high into the
sky, people visible from every corner and every coordinate. Business and
busyness, cramped and crazy, where the closest thing to freedom is stepping on
a balcony as high as you can get. Where you try to see everything, but can only
ever get a fraction of all the uninterrupted movement. Flatness is foreign to
me.
But
here, flat is everywhere—where the tallest building is a storey and a half, and
I can see the end of every street I turn onto. Where the greens outnumber the
greys, and the sky is so blue that it seems more like a cartoon backdrop than
reality. The air smells different, tastes different, feels different. Here, freedom is seeing the world open up around
you, its limits beyond your line of sight, if there are even any limits at all.
Freedom is reaching up towards the clouds, because they’re so close that
touching them is somehow closer to a reality than a mere possibility. Freedom
is reaching out on either side, and never touching another soul.
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