Golden Handcuffs

The Self-Imposed Prison of My Making⛓

In a world where success often wears a gilded mask, how many of us take a moment to reflect on our ambitions? I consider it a privilege to draw inspiration from the Universe as I explore the paradox of ambition and confinement.

We live as if we are always running. Only when we pause to walk do we realize that we’ve been moving through a dream. It is in this awakening that we begin to search for the true reality we want to live in. I often find myself caught in the tension between societal expectations and the yearning for true freedom. We all experience this internal struggle; yet it is an intrinsic part of our human journey. 

The journey to reclaim our identity and essence is a profoundly beautiful one. The quest for authenticity is one that can never be stripped from our human experience, and I am honored to write about it.

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Waking up on a Wednesday, hungover from residual emotions
She had a dream of the golden chains
Two shiny cuffs that bind, quietly fueling her pains
Her soul has longed to break away
Yet it still strays, weeping, unable to find the way
Struggling, it wants to cry
So it cries, a cry out loud
Not because it’s lost
But because it now knows there’s a way.

Had she been so drunk, spiritually?
Her soul feels fresh, as if it has just gotten cleansed from rehab
As if life has finally begun to slow
Disoriented by the mundane, her soul - it cannot stay
Not for lack of trying, no,
But for the truth it didn’t know
Sober now, it is clear, fully awake
Ready at last for the steps it’s willing to take.

The path of becoming, she has walked for years
Chasing fantasies, swallowing fears
Becoming, dreaming, more becoming
Only to arrive here
Drunk on abundance, material, empty things
Lost in directions, the intangible, what the soul can’t bring
Now her core is drown in emotions
Clinging onto what might have slipped away
Her thoughts, oh boy, how much they have swayed
Everything her soul thought it’d need
Only to hunger for the opposite seed.

Now begins the unbecoming
Thirty-two years of numbing, running, drunk on illusions
A life was lived, but not her own
Whose life was it? Did she live a loan?
Who wore the mask? What lies were grown?
She became the one they praised
Successful, strong, fierce and blazed
Head of the curve, breaking ground, standing out
Constrained by the discipline chains she mined from her own ashes of doubt
Wearing the golden handcuffs she placed upon herself.
But how many know that gold can bind as much as it can shine?
The cuffs were tight, and now her hands are tied
Her soul is tired,
It’s an empty dream.

All she wants now, is to unbecome
Her body is aching to shed
To drop the burdens, fears, and dread
To return to no one
To unbecome, to break apart
To free the soul, to heal the heart
No more lives that she wants to chase
No more roles that she wants to play
No more labels, no more plans to obey
Cultural demands, conventional norms, they no longer hold weights
Society’s expectations, she no longer cares to comprehend.

Back to me now, I want to live
Just to live
My soul, just like hers, it wants nothing more than to live
To thrive, to breathe, to taste the bliss
Not a name, nor an empty path
Just life in rhythm, life in rhymes.
No more chasing dreams or someone’s life
My soul, just like hers, it longs to dispel
All the weight of its inner strife
So it can live, just to live, simply to live
Alive, whole, as it desires
Free from plans, from judgments, from expectations
Without labels or explanations
It only wants to live.