A Freedom Taken By Lies
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It is his third town in the past six months. He does his best to keep his heart from home, to not let his nostalgia for memories cloud his judgment. His clothes riddled in filth as he has no funds, no place to rest. From time to time he finds himself a welcomed soul to allow him a stay in hotel.
But much of his time is spent in alleys and strangely cemeteries. As he finds the dark somber setting to be a delight to his ears. As no smells of rancid decay wafts about his nose, nor the shouting of drunks and whores scour his ears. He knows himself, he must be belted in grotesque aromas. Smells that would leave any man chocked in his presence.
But by now, he has become accustomed to his position of stench and life. Six months, six months have come and gone. He wanders with aimless direction but passes through each day with a smile. Though his stomach is in constant agony of nourished substance. He finds no reason to treat his existence nor others with any ill will.
He is merely open to the happiness of the small natural ability to breath. The freedom of his legs to take him where he pleases. And though he is in a slow pasture to death, he is in no hurry to rush his soul to his resting tomb.
For once, before this aimless wandering, he of someone of greatness, at least in his own mind. But wrongfully was he taken from his home, on dreadful stormy October night. Simply minding his own, filling his mind with books beneath candle light. When witches broke into his home, took his literature and strung him in the rain over night.
Casting spell they did, the witches that took his book. Spells that would leave him in a muddle state of hopelessness. And after the night spent in rain, they took him down. And beneath their wooden teeth, they whispered with apologize. And upon these words he thought he would see the return of his books.
But those that apologized turned to not be witches, but men held to the witches spell, to do their bidding or else. And upon the opening of his eyes and seeing these feeble men. His heart fell with pity, but not for him, for them. For he knew that they had succumbed to the witches brew.
But he, who filled his mind in knowledge, in the constant search for truth, for internal growth. Knew what lies these witches tell. And he knew he would never see his book again. He knew it was up to him, to get back that which the witches stole. And on that fateful night, during a stormy October night. He hung strapped to a board with a smile, through the entire night. But never again, did he see day or night, for six years after that frightful night.
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