Tell me all about your prison, in detail.
Tell me about the stench, the awful colors, the dampness that never goes away.
Tell me about how you are tortured, morning and night, and the way that your captors leer at you.

I know the story well. It is my own.

How did you get there? How were you coerced? And how are you held inside?
How many men does it take to seal those walls in tight, to close the gap between you and your fears? And how do they hold you down and keep you in place?
I want to know, every detail.

What would it mean to be free? Does the thought excite you, or terrify you beyond words? Does that bring up images too? Of victoriously throwing off your captors? Of growing larger, finally, than the world?

What does freedom taste like? What does it smell like?
How does it embrace you at night?
And how was it ripped away from you?
Why did you ever let go?
How can find it again, and keep it this time? Bottle it and carry it with you?

Hmmmmm. . .
Freedom is a state of being–the state which is beyond change and condition. Can you rest there? Can you sense it? Yes. Breathe. You are perfect now, even in the midst of everything. You are enough.