Literary Imprisonment

I trashed my bed with several creased sheets of paper while stashing my dandy signpen back in its case. I hardly noticed that it took me over half a day to come up with an impressive essay about the meaning of freedom, and still, I ended up with a bunch of pen-stricken paragraphs and a few sentences that do not even adhere to the the entire thought of what I wanted to express! Much to my dismay, there were several ideas outrageously popping inside my head, but I couldn't even get my tongue (err, my pen) to complete a paragraph containing the thought. All I wanted was something impressively written to complement the splendid ideas I had in mind, but all I had was a pfffttt of broken phrases trying ever so hard to achieve coherence. Nothing rhetoric, really... all I wanted was a piece that could've stirred others to think about the costs of being able to do what they want to do contemporarily.

I have never felt so imprisoned in my entire "literary" life! The synaptic inconsistencies of my dear neurons caused my brain to think so right, opposed to the erratic manner that my hand was jotting down screwed ideas. Now I'm thinking, is it really me? or was it just an isolated case of a peculiar "hand-brain" relationship. I've never felt so betrayed in my whole life... what can be worse than being betrayed by your own self? I wanted to free the wonderful thoughts I had in mind, but I just plainly couldn't.

I now wonder...

...if William the Conqueror ever had that torn feeling between freeing Scotland's people in an honorable manner and getting the Scots asses (and his own!) publicly displayed in the middle of the battle. Well, surprisingly, in the end, he was able to do both... strut a multitude of Scottish flesh and honorably opening the path to freedom for his country.

...if the acclaimed Dr. Jose Rizal suppressed the littlest tinge of willingness to take up arms against the colonizers (imagine having to put up with your family's tragedies courtesy of these gatecrashers), and instead, fight with the might of his pen and his renowned eloquence. In the end, his inspiring works became his fellow Filipino's strength and will to fight for freedom despite the lack of arms.

...if Benjamin Martin felt as imprisoned as he was between choosing to be a protective father to his children against enlisting in the Continental army. He did lose two of his seven children (whom he called "better men")as he became the militia's leader, for the cost of achieving South Carolina's freedom from Cromwallis.

These men had to go through contradicting circumstances as they strived for freedom. They were able to reconcile opposing situations, and managed to serve as an avenue for their much coveted dream. Perhaps, like them, I can come up with something to reconcile my erroneous "hand-brain" relationship, and get those profound thoughts finally scribbled. Wouldn't that be such a freeing experience?