The shackles binding my body shadow my face. My face, losing hope; losing the will to survive. This isn't jail, this is death. Death, before dying. Mental, spiritual death. Nothing except despair. No prospect. Nothing. Maybe this is jail. Nothing.
An "American Girl." This is it tourists. This is America. I am America. I am the ranch, the dungarees, the one you have been waiting for. But I won't smile for you. I will not smile for the picture. I do not smile unless I have a reason. You yelling "Smile" at me is not a reason.
In the future, it gets better. That is why I look forward, never back. Live gives me twists and turns, so, like a young branch, I bend. But, like an old tree, I do not bend all the way. My regrets will not come with me. I cannot have weights on my shoulders as I walk to the sunlight at the end of the tunnel...
Red doesn't mean hate or danger. I am 7 and I know that. It is happiness, joy, love. My red colored clothes are happiness. I don't need a reason to be happy, I just am. This is why I am running through the halls. I am happy. After all, I might as well stay young while I can! So, come, jump, laugh, be happy with me, and stop growing old.
Yep. I am a cowgirl. I do not go "Yeehah" or "howdy." I own a ranch (with help, after all I am only 30), and I ride the horses into town. It is good for the horse, and convenient for me. Only problem, they have no horse stops. I have to tie my horse to a parking meter and pay the meter. Disgraceful.
Everyone is starting to go now. I am a man of forty, in Cuba, and I am sitting in a plastic, green (slightly uncomfortable) chair... There are just a few, late tourists... Perfect. I pick up my trumpet, and begin to play. This isn't me playing, it is my heart singing. The mellow sound fits perfectly with the darkening sky. The wind caresses my cheek, and I feel at peace. I know that soon I will have to play with my head. But, for this moment in time, I will play with my heart.