Have you read Gypsy stories? The society strays, the people without morals, the travelling group of men and women and children who lead colourful lives, who belong nowhere and are accountable to none? Their caravans of vice and temptations?
And have you heard of the gypsies who fall in love with the wrong person and regret to live it?
I am that person. I fell in love with the wrong guy. I belong to nobody. I have passion, but no freedom to show it; i have love, but no rights to display it. Always the rights these days, always the rights. No right to laugh, touch, smile, spend time with, move around with, hold, love. No rights. A momentary lapse in remembering that i have no rights, and i am cruel and heartless. It stays with me, this statement this taunt: no rights. I breathe no rights, i live no rights. There are only wrongs.
When i need to escape, i take off on my bike. It's my one point of solace. When i'm driven to anger, i ride carelessly. When i cry, i ride slowly. When i don't want to think, i take busy roads to keep my focus on navigating the bumps and traffic. I leave everything behind when i'm on it.
Today, as i sat outside the doctor's cabin, the enormity of it hit me. This is who i've become, but is this who i wanted to be?, i asked myself. And then it took great effort to stop the tears.
I fell in love with the wrong guy. I am a gypsy. But i've already got me a name, so i'll just bestow that name on Bike. It is, after all, an extension of me. There you go Bike, you got yourself a new name. Just, don't go wanting to become somebody else.
