Freedom I wake up from jet lag, knowing that some body refuses to sleep home is there. Here it was late autumn and the leaves were falling. The hotel window faces south, and the rising eastern sun illuminates the harbor from the left. It was a long, long bay with blue water that glistened in the dawn light. At the north end of the harbour there were some huge lifting gear, which seemed to be docks for unloading cargo. Because of the distance, you can't see the details clearly, you can't feel the clutter of the dock. Or it was early morning, and the ship seemed to be asleep before all the bustle had begun. There is a long iron bridge extending south from the north end of the harbour. The iron bridge was a clear black line from my window.

At first, the black line touched the water, then rose higher and higher, across the bay, connecting a land to the south. I looked across the land, and there was a city. The dense pile of tall buildings looks like an obtrusive myth between the long bay and the headland. There was once a beautiful song about this city. The song begins by telling you: If you're going to the city, don't forget to wear some flowers in your hair. It's always hard to forget the songs you sang when you were young. When I was young, it was easy to believe that a city with flowers must be beautiful. What is beauty, after all? Is beauty a dream that never grows old in the heart? What do we dream of? What did we dream of? I sat at my window looking across a wide bay at the city I had dreamed of; Through the years, back to see the details of my dream. I don't know the details. All I remember is wanting to be free. What is freedom? It's not specific. Maybe like a pair of wings, can fly. Even in the most depraved weight of the body, still can by the freedom of the mind dream, fly lightly, fly over the city. If my hometown is too heavy for my soul, I will wear flowers in my head and wander far away in search of a place where I can fly. I dreamed of a city where people wore flowers in their hair. They hug and kiss each other in the street, they smile kindly to each other, they lean on each other in sad times. I dream of freedom, not only political freedom, not only economic freedom. Perhaps, what I dream of is the freedom of sociology, the freedom of ethics, the freedom of liberation from all the artificial restrictions of norms! Only after so many years did I begin to realize that the freedom I dreamed of was actually aesthetic freedom. Political freedom brings people out of prison. Economic freedom makes people walk out of poverty and hunger. Social freedom makes people walk out of class. Ethical freedom enables people to walk out from the taboos of religious families. However, I am not free. My mind can be my own prison. We may have food and clothing, but the soul is poor. I don't see true equality in a classless society. I can't explain it. After every ethical revolution, new authorities and taboos are established. 'They're not beautiful! I saw an old man in the street today. He was holding a sign with a few lines against the war on it. He criticizes war, his government, his country, politicians and bureaucrats, vulgar and greedy plutocrats. People hurried by or stopped to listen. I noticed that the old man wore a red flower on his thin white hair.

Freedom I wake up from jet lag, knowing that some body refuses to sleep home is there. Here it was late autumn and the leaves were falling. The hotel window faces south, and the rising eastern sun illuminates the harbor from the left. It was a long, long bay with blue water that glistened in the dawn light. At the north end of the harbour there were some huge lifting gear, which seemed to be docks for unloading cargo. Because of the distance, you can't see the details clearly, you can't feel the clutter of the dock. Or it was early morning, and the ship seemed to be asleep before all the bustle had begun. There is a long iron bridge extending south from the north end of the harbour. The iron bridge was a clear black line from my window.

At first, the black line touched the water, then rose higher and higher, across the bay, connecting a land to the south. I looked across the land, and there was a city. The dense pile of tall buildings looks like an obtrusive myth between the long bay and the headland. There was once a beautiful song about this city. The song begins by telling you: If you're going to the city, don't forget to wear some flowers in your hair. It's always hard to forget the songs you sang when you were young. When I was young, it was easy to believe that a city with flowers must be beautiful. What is beauty, after all? Is beauty a dream that never grows old in the heart? What do we dream of? What did we dream of? I sat at my window looking across a wide bay at the city I had dreamed of; Through the years, back to see the details of my dream. I don't know the details. All I remember is wanting to be free. What is freedom? It's not specific. Maybe like a pair of wings, can fly. Even in the most depraved weight of the body, still can by the freedom of the mind dream, fly lightly, fly over the city. If my hometown is too heavy for my soul, I will wear flowers in my head and wander far away in search of a place where I can fly. I dreamed of a city where people wore flowers in their hair. They hug and kiss each other in the street, they smile kindly to each other, they lean on each other in sad times. I dream of freedom, not only political freedom, not only economic freedom. Perhaps, what I dream of is the freedom of sociology, the freedom of ethics, the freedom of liberation from all the artificial restrictions of norms! Only after so many years did I begin to realize that the freedom I dreamed of was actually aesthetic freedom. Political freedom brings people out of prison. Economic freedom makes people walk out of poverty and hunger. Social freedom makes people walk out of class. Ethical freedom enables people to walk out from the taboos of religious families. However, I am not free. My mind can be my own prison. We may have food and clothing, but the soul is poor. I don't see true equality in a classless society. I can't explain it. After every ethical revolution, new authorities and taboos are established. 'They're not beautiful! I saw an old man in the street today. He was holding a sign with a few lines against the war on it. He criticizes war, his government, his country, politicians and bureaucrats, vulgar and greedy plutocrats. People hurried by or stopped to listen. I noticed that the old man wore a red flower on his thin white hair.