There was a period in my life when I contemplated the concept of freedom. I was all about Nelson Mandela and how he led his people out of apartheid. I read “To Kill a Mockingbird” and “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” and “Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry” with the fervour of some black fanatic.
I puzzled over which was the freedom that was most important. Freedom of speech? Freedom of media? Freedom of thought? Freedom of religion? I wanted all these freedoms. I didn’t want to be trapped by life, nor the political ideals of those who run my country.
Utopianism scared me, or rather, I have a morbid fascination with it. George Orwell and Alduous Huxley and Ray Bradbury and BF Skinner – it is as if you needed to offer up your person, your soul, for the good of some greater power as yet unnamed. I don’t want to be the black sheep, and neither do I want to be the sacrificial lamb.
Is it better to be happy and trapped? Or is it better to be sad but free?