I was in the Maasai Mara recently.
We’d stopped for lunch, the sun directly overhead—
no mercy, no clouds, just that great African blaze.
I stepped away, cigarette in hand,
and scanned the horizon.
Fields of gold stretched forever,
a silence so vast it pressed against your ribs.
A lone tree here and there,
offering shade not to humans, but to time itself.
The breeze slapped my face—
not gentle, not cruel—just real.
Like the kind of touch that reminds you you’re alive.
And in that moment I saw it.
Freedom.
Not the kind we talk about.
Not passports or choices in a supermarket.
But the real thing.
A lion, belly full, deciding to sleep the entire day
just because he fucking can.
A rhino, browsing bush to bush,
searching for the juiciest leaves—
zero urgency, zero shame.
Just sky.
Just land.
Just breath.
Nights are cold out there—
you wrap yourself in the stars.
The water is sharp, clean, honest.
You learn to drink slow.
Sometimes you’ll see fire ripping through the plains,
no one to stop it, no one to pray.
And sometimes the rain comes,
without warning,
as if the gods blinked.
Freedom is all that.
It’s being nothing,
and still being everything.
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