Stillness

Freedom exists within the lie that is democracy and the media,
Like the prize at the end of a long, hard race, it is always in the future and out of reach.
How can we say we know what freedom is when we cannot say how the wetness of the depths of the oceans feels on our lips?
How the air presses hard against our temples at the top most peak on the highest mountain of our earth.
What enables us to know who and what is free?
Is the tribal man who lives for and with nature, concerned only with the work he must do for the good of the community and oblivious to time bar the placing of the sun,
Is he less free than the modern man whose life is constantly pressured by the omniprescent ticking of the passing seconds?
Should freedom be measured by possessions,
Should it be measured by fulfilment of desires,
Should it be measured by ones position in artificially created societies?

Before one can even attempt to be free, one must sit contentedly within ones skin.
Feel the beating of ones heart,
Hear the faint murmurings within ones ears, the whispers of secrets of long ago.
Freedom will not come with awards, will not be attained through riches.
Freedom can be reached through stillness.
Stillness will hear the teachings of the trees, and Stillness will know the calling of the seas.
Stillness will bring you freedom in your heart.