We are masters at pretending that life is perfect, living behind the illusion that shackles of fear and pressure doesn’t leave our lungs breathless with anxiety. But in front of the eyes of my dad, they were shattered glass. He was always able to see right through the forced smiles, the expected greetings and when I asked him how he knew, he would tell me that he knew a survivor when he saw one. The bleakness in their eyes, the fear of judgement after each conversation and the automatic responses, it was as if they were mere puppets tied up in strings. He would always blame the government for the wrongdoings of their people, calling them or, some days, society as a whole, the puppeteer.

As a child, I would absorb his ideologies like a sponge, but sometimes I would let the words fly past my ears when I remembered that he became this kind of man because of my mom. She killed herself when I was 6 years old and it has been over 9 years since that hideous night had occurred. The entire town was utterly shocked when the news spread; it baffled everyone with confusion since they had only ever known her as this positive, smart and kind woman. Yet, I could not even fabricate words to describe my mother since I barely caught a glimpse of her during my childhood. When I asked him why she did it, my dad told me she was a workaholic, constantly tangled in strings of seeking approval and acceptance, that it drove her to insanity.

“No one is truly free, don’t ever believe it for a second.” Those were the only words he muttered to me the day of the funeral. It’s hard to remember his voice very clearly but there is always a faint echo of him saying those exact words. Words I know will forever be imprinted within the crevices of my thoughts, whether I liked it or not.

But even more so, I wonder if that belief of his ever faltered before.

Just once.

I wonder if he ever stumbled upon just one special person, someone that made him question everything he had ever instilled into himself. Or perhaps, he never did. Maybe there was never a shred of doubt and he had truly taken those words of his to the grave.

Five years later, these lingering thoughts were gradually swept away. Yet as I stand here in the sand, with the mixture of salt and sand blowing freely against by cheeks, they were once against fluttering breathlessly around my head.

Before my eyes, this unreadable person seemingly had the power to shatter my perspective, everything I once believed from my dad was beginning to wither and crack with shuddering confusion and flickering admiration.

He was new to town and was immediately labelled as wild and eccentric. People would whisper behind his backs, teachers would try to humiliate him when he didn’t know the answers and many students would silently judge every stumble he made, watching him like Frankenstein, but never making a move. Yet oddly enough, nothing ever fazed him. He continuously wore a cheerful smile, his eyes always sparkling with serenity. He reminded me of something I never had, something my dad never believed existed, and something that was stolen from my mother.

Freedom.

Him and I were in several classes with each other and lived close by so we would often walk home together. Today, we took a detour since he wanted to see the sunset. So we made our way towards the edge of a river bank and almost immediately, he picked up some stones and started throwing them into the lake in an attempt to skip stones.

The wistful breeze filled the silence for a couple of minutes before I asked, “How do you do it?”

“Hmm?” He glanced over at me before bending down to grab another hand full of stones.

“How do you just… not let it bother you? What everyone is saying or thinking about you.” I replied cautiously.

“Oh… and what exactly is everyone saying?” He asked teasingly as his lips perked up a smile.

I bit my inner cheek in apprehension since I wasn’t completely certain if he wanted a reply or not.

But he continued, “Plus, even if I do pop up in the gossip, it doesn’t bother me. Everyone has their own opinion, and that’s fine,” he titled his head back a little to look at me, “They can think whatever they want of me because I know myself better than they know me and that’s all that matters.”

I rolled my eyes, “You are simplifying this way too much. It’s not a light switch. You can’t just not care about that kind of stuff. I can’t just not care whenever I want, we weren’t designed that way.”

He chuckled lightly before saying, “I never said it was not hard. I just decided what was more important to me and reminded myself of that everyday for a long time,” he shrugged offhandedly before taking a seat on the sand, facing the flickering glows of warmth from the setting sun. “Want to know what it is?” He asked in an unusually serious and soft tone.

“Um… yeah sure.” Gradually feeling a little unsteady by the sudden change in the once-relaxing atmosphere.

He let out a small breath, staring aimlessly at the pebbles scattered beneath his feet. Then turned his body in my direction and looked straight at me, as if he wanted me to truly understand every single word he was about to say, before answering, “to love myself.”

Out of the all of the words that may have echoed in the wind, I never once expected that. But it was better that way. Because it took me by surprise and every silent second that passed, his words to began to hold a stronger and steadier truth

“How?” I uttered. My mind was suddenly blank with thoughts and I didn’t even know what to think anymore. But after taking a steady breath, I continued, “I mean… you love yourself and now you are just completely immune to what others say, to what society wants?”

He looked at me for a couple of seconds before pushing himself off the sand then almost immediately, chirped back to his regular, easy-going and cheerful visage. “Well…,” he said, while stretching his arms, “yeah. Now I am. I guess I just realized that I only get one life so why should I spend it living someone else’s.”

"But don’t you have to sometimes? To survive?” I asked, before remembering the ironic death of my mom.

“I don’t want to just survive. Wouldn’t you rather want to live,” he asked as he smiled softly at the shimmering sky encapsulating his vision. “Life would suck if you only did what everyone else wanted. Everyday would feel suffocating and exhausting, to the point that living just wouldn’t be worth it anymore.” He began to frown a little and his voice became tense before he let out a chuckle. “Just thinking about not being free makes me frustrated.”

I stood there tensely, unable to find a proper way to reply. But my thoughts began to flutter memories of my dad, specifically, his everlasting, echoing statement and it drowned me in an instant.

“Do you really believe that freedom exists?” I expected him to immediately answer and tell me that of course it did and I was stupid to believe otherwise. But he didn’t and silence filled my ears for a couple of long seconds. My heart was beating faster as the seconds flew by and curiosity as well as anxiety coursed through my veins.

“Come watch the sunset with me,” he called out to me as he patted the spot next to him. Taken by surprise, I jumped a little at the sudden voice before walking towards him and sitting down. “Do you know why I love watching the sunset?”

I shook my head.

“C’mon, take a guess,” he said playfully as he nudged my shoulder. “Fine. Um… you like it because it’s pretty?” I answered quite generically.

“Well, yes. But it’s more than that. I find it crazy that the sun can just...do that,” he said, while spreading and pointing his arms towards the fading flames. “No one told the sun to do anything and it just produces amazing things in its own special way.”

I frowned in confusion, not really understanding if he was trying to imply some sort of comparison to sunsets and freedom.

He caught a glimpse of my visage before waving his hands in front of him, wanting to brush away his previous statement. “Okay, bad explanation. Let me start over. He dramatically cleared his throat before speaking calmly, “You have to believe that freedom exists. But more importantly, you have to find your own definition of what freedom is to you. For me, I believe that if I stay true to myself, do what makes me happy, then I am free. No one holding me down, nothing holding me back. I'm not blind or deaf, I know what people say about me,” he turned towards me, his eyes soft and vulnerable. “I’m far from perfect and I have a handful of flaws. But what makes me immune to the opinions of others is that I’m confident in my imperfections. I will try to improve at my own pace, in my own way. I will say what ever I believe, dress however I want and live life by my own expectations. But, do you know what people do when they see someone like me?”

He didn’t ask for my guess and just paused for a moment before continuing, “They become scared. So, they use fear to control us and if that doesn’t work, we become outcasts. That’s why most people just let society drag them around like rag dolls; they are too scared of the backlash if they resisted.”

“Like a puppeteer,” I suddenly blurted out, remembering my dad’s analogy. He raised an eyebrow, needing more context, so I continued, “my dad said something similar and always thought of the people being puppets and the government or society as this master puppeteer,” I ended sheepishly, not sure if he would laugh since it was the first time I have ever mentioned it to anyone.

“Wow!" he exclaimed brightly, showing a smile with teeth, "that’s a pretty cool analogy. Kind of creepy, but scarily accurate.” By this time, dark blue crescents arose, and the darkness began bleeding away the glimmering flames, filling the sky with evening sparkles.

“So, what happens when you cut off the puppet’s strings?” He asked with a smirk, but had an underlying, knowing tone.

I realized that he was trying to make a point. Nothing was ever impossible. Freedom wasn’t unachievable. Fear and the many layers of terror that laid behind it kept us knotted and tangled in place. We just need to find an escape but more importantly, believe one exists.

“The puppet goes free.”