A mind too free to be fettered – A short story

Here, goes another short story. I hope you’ll like it.

A mind too free to be fettered

Liberty. A word bearing a profound meaning, however, no one could ever emphasize its connotations.

Whenever I gaze at the gigantic sky, with the glittering stars resembling some microscopic holes in this beautiful glass globe of Earth, I forget about all the stumbling blocks of life for a moment. I commence to be empowered by this feeling that I could go beyond the boundaries, break everything that kept me from reaching my destination. Maybe, there is no destination and the road will continue for eternity. To my astonishment, I become replete with exhilaration, thinking that I could actually be someone, do something in this blissful, enigmatic dream. The birds, flying high with their delicate wings stretched, are the ones, who have always inspired me. Be it raining or a hundred degrees of temperature high or low, they never cease from doing their jobs. Once, burning the midnight oil, I fathomed that flying could make a man get rid of all his chains, and decipher the true meaning of liberty. The irrefutable fact could be kept aside for a while.

If I were given a pair of wings and could fly for a day, I would soar high above the smoky clouds flapping my wings, with the birds beside. The traffic has always been an indisputable cause for my unending misery. The abhorrent smoke, the abominable gases that ruin the pure air, the ceaseless, unendurable honking of the cars, the out of the blue halts in the traffic, are at the top of my detest list. Flying, without any barriers, would fill my animate body with incessant bliss. My first stop would be above the mountains. The graphic panorama from the top, would be a pleasure to my ravenous eyes, which crave for the ultimate beauty of nature. I have always wondered in awe, what it would be like, to be able to behold the spellbinding mountains and the oceans. I would never relinquish this out of the box opportunity.

Although I belong to the group of Homo sapiens, I have a mind, which declines to choose to be the stereotype. Wandering in the woods, gazing at the gargantuan trees with their branches swaying in the wind, like some eerie phantoms, listening to the enthralling birds, who with their mellifluous voice, fetter me into a chain of entrancement, fathoming the beauty of this world, painted so impeccably by Him, dashing against the mighty wind, smelling the enigmatic fragrance of nature, have obliged me to contemplate a world beyond a man’s imagination. Have you ever thought of some beings, which do not exist or maybe, are too bashful to come in front of us? As a child, I had been entwined in these esoteric thoughts, which peeped into the corners of my pristine heart. I nostalgically recollect dreaming of a world replete with every kind of splendour that can ever imagined, that was not discovered, yet to be explored. If I could fly, I would endeavour my best to quench this inquisitive being’s thirst of the obscure. I would race through the clouds and enter into a different world of enchantment.

“What is this beautiful world called?” I asked, curiously.
“Angeland, the world of the pure,” the tiny figure said, examining me with her gleaming eyes.

The picturesque place was an expanse of pure white serenity, with prodigious, fluffy clouds floating in every corner ever imagined, and I was standing, incredulously, on clouds. To my stupefaction, I didn’t fall down, notwithstanding the mighty gravitational force. The Sun could be beheld distinctly, and in an enigmatic way it seemed to have the most enormous smile on its gleaming visage made of fire. The lovely fragrance sent me to some other world full of everything gleeful. Out of the blue, some other little creatures appeared from all the corners, alike to the one, who was attempting to leap high enough to touch my black hair. They all wore a pointed purple hat, a white top, which had flowers knitted on it, and black leggings.

I could hear them, asking questions to each other in bewilderment, however I could not comprehend their peculiar language.

“Could I know to which class of animals you belong?” I enquired, politely.
Suddenly, the din and the pandemonium ended into sheer silence. A similar creature, with a puckered face said with impenetrable obscurity, “We don’t belong to any class of animals. We are above that. If you want to know, then, we call ourselves ‘Angelus animic.’”
“What does it mean?” I asked, endeavouring to figure out the undecipherable meaning.
“Angel at heart,” he replied, sagaciously.

After the bafflement came to an oblivion end, they offered their scrumptious delicacies, which the humans have never even heard of. One thing, that I liked the most, was Foolecta capricia. I have no idea what it meant in their language and I didn’t wish to know and flaw its beauty. The tiny angels had then, commenced to admire me and their conceptions about human beings changed drastically.

For the last time I stretched out my wings, flew in the vivid sky, where the birds were too scared of such a colossal being flying beside them, and went back to Earth.

This was too incredible to be true and I wistfully smiled, thinking about what just happened in my head.

Have a great life.
Love,
Touchwords

*Feel free to give your views*

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