Ever since I could remember, the world had been my playground. No place was off-limits. Nothing was dangerous enough. No one whined about safety or staying in the line of sight. My childhood was an endless stretch of freedom – to do what I want, be what I want. I never even knew that there was any other way to live.
Oh, and before you start misplacing sympathy let me assure you that I was not an orphan. On the contrary, I was one of pack of eight who found greatest pleasure in scaring my mother out of her skin. My father would just laugh it off as if he understood that it was just our way of letting out steam. Mom, on the other hand, had her own way of venting out that usually ended up making sitting a painful experience for us. Ah, those were the days.
Our home was built very close to the rail lines that connected our lazy town to the next one. Whenever I needed some me-time, I would head out there. Making my way across the dried shrubs that formed the boundary of my secret place, I wondered how no one else found this place as appealing.
I would spend hours imagining myself as a gymnast balancing on the tracks. In my head, I was way more proficient with my balancing act than the acrobats at the circus. The thing I loved the most was sitting on the tracks and feeling it come alive under me. The throb of the moving train somewhere down the line would send vibrations roaring up to me, promising me that one day when I was ready, it would take me far away. I smiled every time as I walked back to the life where I felt freer.
Written for Photo Fiction #79