Pretty Bird

Anonymous

Cold, shining metal gleams in the light. When illuminated by the lamplight, the brass appears to glow and the beautiful creature it holds is regarded in awe. The spectators comment on how it’s perfect, and how, “Oh I wish I had one like that!” The soul-filled blurs smile at the perfect lie, failing to see that whether it is exposed to the light or hidden in the dark, the beautiful brass is still hard and cold. And it is still a cage.

The bars before me stretch high to the canopy above, each as unchanging and hopeless as an untie-able knot. Oh, the misery in a shift of perspective. Not long ago, these unforgiving bars of metal had given me the feeling of being safe and cared for. They had once represented peace and rest, but now... now they are the guards of an innocent man’s prison, standing sentries for an unjust cause.

I am a wild creature, born to be free, to explore, to fly, growing impatient and restless, and glimpsing the outside world the unforgiving bars. I press against the bars, forcing my full bodyweight into the unshakeable pillars, but to no avail. Again and again, I push myself, only to pull away at the end of the day, bruised, damaged, and sore. Early the next morning, funny people stroll past, unseeing the bruising on my shoulders and hands. They coo with delight at the illusion before them, the pretty bird in a pretty cage.

Day after day, I break my body for the freedom of my mind and heart, and, gradually, the blind observers begin to notice. But it isn’t the pretty cage that’s changed. Regarding the display, they see that the pretty bird is no longer pretty, and they mock it - they mock me, trapped in my cell. “What’s wrong with the strange thing?” “It’s just making a fuss.” “It lives a perfect life. What does it have to complain about?” It is true, in a way. I have always been given food and water. I have always been kept warm and given all the physical possessions I could dream up. But the beautiful brass is hard and cold. And it is still a cage.