The Land of Freedom and Fear
The tale of a foray into cyberspace.
Your day starts with the quietest of escapes.
The click of a key, the flash of a screen and then you’re off. Off into a place where boundaries are but pixels to walk through, a place where waves of text and colour wash over iridescent sands from every corner of the world. You learn to surf on that radiant beach, trained since you were old enough to talk. You sift through the shining grains, each taking you to a different realm. You learn their stories, you tell your own. It is, perhaps, the only place where some inkling of freedom flows through you.
For all the stifling monotony that envelopes you when you wake, you pay one more visit to the Land of Freedom. Some days are spent with the millions of nameless friends you’ve collected over the years, others spent exploring all by yourself. It is on one of these excursions that you first sense it.
At first, it’s only a slight nip in the air, probably because it snowed somewhere on the planet today. You shrug it off and trudge on, focus drawn to the bright shops that line the streets. Your eyes find a tiny stall broadcasting music in languages you can’t speak. On the counter is the very song you’ve been looking for.
As you reach for your wallet, you feel it again. A stronger notion this time, the undeniable chill of someone watching you. You look over your shoulder, but there’s no one to be seen. Of course there isn’t. In the Place of Freedom, everyone dons masks and pseudonyms, including you. No one could possibly know your real identity. With this consolation, you buy the song and set off.
It’s by your sixth, maybe seventh step that you can’t ignore it anymore. Whispers trail behind you like hunters stalking prey, the sound of shutters setting your teeth on edge. Every time you turn, you’re faced with a sea of masks that never failed to make you feel welcome before, but now are looming shadows over the snow. You whirl around, suddenly desperate to put an end to this.
But it’s all in vain. Your question is lost in the hiss of the wind. Faceless, silent figures stare back, sliding closer and closer. You step back, trip and fall, but they keep on coming. You scream for help, voice hoarse from the lack of use. Scream for someone, anyone, please, to shield you.
But the Land of Freedom has no limits, and so the Land of Freedom has no restrictions. Once you’re in there, you’re on your own, and you knew this the day you put on your mask, the day you chose your name. You know this today as you yell for help, as you feel your song and your wallet snatched away, your mask dissolving to expose your face to the bitter wind. You are alone, surrounded. In the Land of Freedom, you are a ghost.
Somehow your legs find the will to spring up, to run. You slip through the cracks of their cage, stumbling in the blizzard that has overtaken this street. You run and you run till you can’t anymore, collapsing over the blanket of snow. It melts to reveal hard, cold concrete, and as you push yourself up, you realise you are back where you started. Heart pounding, breaths elusive in your normal, boring life, and yet you’re so relieved you start to cry. You are safe.
But only for now. Deep down, you know the damage is irreparable. They have seen your face. They know who you are. Someday something will happen, and you will regret ever stepping into the Land of Freedom, with its limitless expanse and absence of restrictions. You push this thought into the dregs of your mind, a spiral you do not want to fall into. For now, you are safe.
You are safe.
