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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 97
to hear his reply.
“Of-course, the rules of society are there for a reason, to

preserve your wellbeing, but one can choose to live outside of
society, as I have,” he replied, keeping his adamant composure,
even when challenged rhetorically by an adolescent.
“So I say there is no freedom. You can choose to live confined
by society, or to live as an outlaw. You can sometimes choose
your craft, and sometimes even your wife. But I say choices are
limited, and therefore even between birth and death, a person
is limited.” I felt my argument was sound, and that made me a
bit sad: I didn’t want to bring him down.

“That is where you’re wrong,” He replied without missing
a beat. “You think freedom is divinity. I’ll explain what real
freedom is. Freedom is the choice you make to do the right
thing or the selfish thing. You can’t always choose your wife,
but you can choose how you treat her. You can’t always choose
your profession, but you can choose to dedicate yourself to it

and excel or to slack at it. Even when a soldier’s life is imposed
on you, you make a choice on what kind of soldier you are. And
you always have a choice of what kind of person you can be.
That is true freedom, and no-one can take it away from you
because it was given to you by God — the freedom to choose,”
he replied, and I was humbled.
“I understand,” I said, and this time I meant it. I felt better
now, and in a way after releasing all my troubles, I found hope.
I can be a good person; a better person. I have a choice, and I

choose to be noble, like Raymond o’ the Brooks.
“Will you tell me your story, how you grew so wise?” I asked,
hoping for a change of subject.
“There’s nothing in my story that would cheer you up. Perhaps