it were summer the grass underneath her was warm from the heat absorbed during the day, the breeze was refreshing, but far from chilly. The cords of the Cello were vibrating with astonishing power through her veins, playing in accord with her brain impulses. The trio on the open stage was caught up in the rough music so uncommon for their fine instruments. Sheila looked up at her surroundings, noticing the young crowd seated on the field had suddenly stopped talking as the concert begun. The sun was setting over the horizon and the trees, along the path of the ancient walls of the city, were sparkling from the light emitted by a set of old looking lamps. Her hands went over her belly, where a recent news had laid some strange destiny. She was unsure of herself while thinking about this, because it was at the same time disgusting, alarming and accusing.
As a woman she was always called to fulfill what her species thought right in the procreating matter. She was helped by society in that, fluffy little puppets and clothes were seen as something good to be fretting over. Other women always assuring that this was the best, wonderful thing that could happen, despite the enormous pain, the lose of control over one's emotions and, of course, the unbearable responsibilities that came afterwards. As a woman she knew already what her duty was, and the mere thought of unwillingness was accusing.
As an adult she was concerned by reality and what kind of enormous mistakes she was due to commit, because it is impossible to be an example to someone when you do not believe in your life, and rarely one does. When you can't actually say what's bad and what's good, simply because you don't believe in those two concepts to begin with. It was alarming how relative a rule in the adult mind could be. With this, describing to a child the absolute truthfulness of rules was impossible.
As a being she was disgusted by all of it. Disgusted to be sacrificing herself for someone else, to be seen just as an oven for new beings, like a tumor cell that multiplies and angrily spreads itself just for the illusion of living forever through an infection. She was living and by that expressing a potential of her own. Moving or standing she was content of herself and felt no urge to give up her life for another. That was a state of happiness already.
As brutal strokes of the bows announced the closure of a symphony, she shut her eyes. Few seconds of deep silence before the clamour and she got it. Freedom is a peculiar concept, you don't crave for it, you embrace it. Humans always call for freedom, but really don't want it, because its consequences can be devastating. One can always do something, always; the time or the sacrifices can be so much that they absorb all of our life before we acquire objects, but as for doing something, nothing really stops us. The absence of freedom is an illusion, we claim to be in chains when the conditions to get rewards are too high a price for doing something.
Life, as in the many ways we see ourselves, it's the vessel of all the things we can do in the range of infinite possibilities that the universe presents us, while happiness is the ability to chose which to pursue without being conditioned by the payback. Sheila couldn't really call herself happy since she was suffering the discontent of a decision self imposed; either way she felt doomed by dissatisfaction and understood that it was due to her current life, not to her future one. She raised from the grass being aware that she was questioning herself over the wrong matter, if she chose to justify her life over standards and not over a present will, she wouldn't be free, nor happy.
