Let me share with you a very strong and beautiful poem:
Walking Around
It so happens I am sick of being a
man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and moviehouses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarsesobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,no more goods,
no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moisthouses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame
and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere,
and venoms, and umbilicalcords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings
and orthopedicshops,and courtyards
with washing hanging from the line:underwear,
towels and shirts from which slowdirty tears are falling.
Translated by
Robert Bly
Pablo Neruda
Most of us, including myself are tied to certain definitions that society attaches to genders, roles, statuses and places. And most often than not, these definitions confine us into "pigeon holes" as my profesor in college once termed. More often than not these definitions and expectations from our society limits our freedom - freedom to express ourselves.
Breaking free would oftentimes entail a negative reaction from the society. Deviance is seen as someting very repulsive in this very punitive world. And it takes tons of courage to go against it - to follow what you think would give you happiness. This is of course can be seen as something which is very utilitarian or even hedonistic. But come to think of it, a lot of people have already suffered because this society restricts everything.
Freedom comes with a high price. I believe it is just a matter of conviction. It is a matter of having the guts to follow what you believe is right. Life is short, why not get the most satisfaction out of it?
Source: http://poemhunter.com/poem/walking-around/
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