Imagining my Reality

I stand barefoot on the damp soil.
I squeeze my toes into the muddy, velvety ground
I hear the sound of the water in between my toes, under my feet.
I smile.
I do it again.

I keep my eyes closed; I don’t want to be distracted by reality.
I try to imagine myself before, when I didn’t care about time.
I try to remember how it was to forget about time passing, running, lost time, wasted time, ruthless time.
I feel my body shrinking. My breast disappears.
Unburdened from femininity, I am free (to be whoever I choose to be).
No blood is lost from my body, unless I run and play and jump and fall and scratch my knee and cry.
But, still, I am not alone.
We humans are such dependent creatures; it is disgusting.

If I can take care of my own wound, if I can stand on my own two feet, if I can decide which road to take, I can forget what society expects from me.
As a woman. A mother. A caregiver. A subordinate. A single limb.
I don’t need a man to stand my ground. I don’t need my parents to tell me what to do. I don’t need religion to dictate how I lead my life. I don’t need society to moderate my expectations.
I want so much more than that. I am so much more than that.