I was furious, for anger is a protective mechanism to cover up fear, hurt or sadness. It was inevitable that there was a ferocity resonating deep within my soul, as I was deceptively sensing all of these negative emotions. However, this was the moment I have been waiting for since they wretched me away from my mother, the distinct sound of my formidable cry and the aggravation, anger, reluctance, and sadness that all played across my mother’s beautiful melancholy face now branded into my mind.
The crack of a whip, the occasional kick from men and women alike, and the sound of slaves bustling awake. I wish to never hear such sounds again in my lifetime. “Prime hands”, “bucks”, “breeding wenches”, and "fancy girls”, I rather become deaf than …show more content…
“Ingenious idea,” I agreed.
Consequently, the journey to freedom proved to be more difficult than expected, but when I spotted a house that had the lights still on, I tapped on Martha’s shoulder gestured towards the ancient, wooden cabin.
“It's part of the Underground Railroad. I can tell by the sign on the door,” Martha whispered excitedly, confirming my speculations.
Even though hiding an escaped slave was punishable by death, people throughout the United States agreed to take in escapees, so this highly organized network became known as the Underground Railroad.
Once we had trudged languidly out of the murky river water and onto dry land, we sprinted towards the safe house and knocked frantically, but quietly.
“Alright, I am coming,” exclaimed a muffled voice behind the wooden door.
“Oh! Come in, children. I will keep you safe and warm,” said an elderly woman with a warm Southern accent, fluffy grey hair, and skin the color of …show more content…
On my own, with nothing but the recurring melody that Martha sang beautifully chiming in my head, I found a new sense of determination to finish my journey. Martha was a philocalist because she was a lover of beauty; a person who found and appreciated beauty in all objects and ideas. As a result, I shall always dedicate my journey to liberty to her.
It took quite a while, three months to be exact, but after all the time I spent in perpetual night, the adventure seemed to pass by in a flash, similar to the zenosyne I sense every day in my new home in a remote part of Canada.
Over the years, I have learned that change is not the enemy, but the fear to construct an ameliorated life for yourself is the true villain. My life, for example, has become a series of moments where I realize that I am finally content with living, and even though I frequently feel monachopsis, and unavoidable out of place, the sense of jubilance outweighs the negatives in my life.
Today, while living this euphoric life as an elderly man, still happily and bitterly reminiscing my past in my oak rocking chair, a knock came at my door. Using my cane, I ambled towards my front door, eager to identify who would visit me so abruptly. Once opened, I could not believe what my eyes gazed
The crack of a whip, the occasional kick from men and women alike, and the sound of slaves bustling awake. I wish to never hear such sounds again in my lifetime. “Prime hands”, “bucks”, “breeding wenches”, and "fancy girls”, I rather become deaf than …show more content…
“Ingenious idea,” I agreed.
Consequently, the journey to freedom proved to be more difficult than expected, but when I spotted a house that had the lights still on, I tapped on Martha’s shoulder gestured towards the ancient, wooden cabin.
“It's part of the Underground Railroad. I can tell by the sign on the door,” Martha whispered excitedly, confirming my speculations.
Even though hiding an escaped slave was punishable by death, people throughout the United States agreed to take in escapees, so this highly organized network became known as the Underground Railroad.
Once we had trudged languidly out of the murky river water and onto dry land, we sprinted towards the safe house and knocked frantically, but quietly.
“Alright, I am coming,” exclaimed a muffled voice behind the wooden door.
“Oh! Come in, children. I will keep you safe and warm,” said an elderly woman with a warm Southern accent, fluffy grey hair, and skin the color of …show more content…
On my own, with nothing but the recurring melody that Martha sang beautifully chiming in my head, I found a new sense of determination to finish my journey. Martha was a philocalist because she was a lover of beauty; a person who found and appreciated beauty in all objects and ideas. As a result, I shall always dedicate my journey to liberty to her.
It took quite a while, three months to be exact, but after all the time I spent in perpetual night, the adventure seemed to pass by in a flash, similar to the zenosyne I sense every day in my new home in a remote part of Canada.
Over the years, I have learned that change is not the enemy, but the fear to construct an ameliorated life for yourself is the true villain. My life, for example, has become a series of moments where I realize that I am finally content with living, and even though I frequently feel monachopsis, and unavoidable out of place, the sense of jubilance outweighs the negatives in my life.
Today, while living this euphoric life as an elderly man, still happily and bitterly reminiscing my past in my oak rocking chair, a knock came at my door. Using my cane, I ambled towards my front door, eager to identify who would visit me so abruptly. Once opened, I could not believe what my eyes gazed