At last I'm left to these prison walls, bleak hands squeeze, pleasing the masters that walk the halls, leaving only fear, my dearest enemy. Impossible to measure the casualties lost before I arrived.
The opportunity to choose and not be told, ordered like a poor slave, he has no control, alone to dream, nothing more. Poor boy I tell myself. I want to fight against the right to decide which they pried from my cold fingers. Fingers now that hold grimy bars separating me from the ability to control as every man should his own walk in life. No choice of mine landed me here.
Though what is more, freedom? Every man desire to flourish. And who can in despicable straights remain truly human while contained in a box? All thoughts and hope of freely living die. Or did I ever loose anything at all? I must ask and get past these feelings quenching my soul. Why is control the pinnacle of my loss? Because I had acted in a manner that granted a perceived, but unrealized sense of power. The degree to which I lived in; I created a lone star and wore it proudly. No, only illusions died for I've realized I never really had control over my life. Only illusions. True freedom comes upon killing my lust for absolute power. At its best, abandon the pursuit of control, and realize the futility of such possessive yet truly fruitless illusions.
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