Freedom is riding in the wide open spaces of the Mongolian or Kazakh steppe. No houses or fencing in sight; the be all and end all of private property and capital aren’t slapping you in the face. It’s me, my horse, the feels of the balls of my feet in my riding boots pressed down and up into my metal stirrups. It’s the effortless (and much practiced) suspension of my upper body off the saddle in the canter, and the moulding of my seat bones into the saddle in the gallop. It’s connection. What does it mean to be so connected to another sentient being you can’t ‘speak’ to?
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