The bird cage is elegant in its prison walls. With golden skinny bars, they stand appropriately distant from one another. As if by standing too close, they might melt together, barring any freedom that might be seen from inside. It’s the freedom seen from inside that turns deadly. If cages were walls then dreams would be thoughts and thoughts alone don’t pine for distance.
They are gold because they are beautiful. Rich in their perfection, they hang balanced between space. The kind of space that feels good initially, but turns all consuming. Attractive in its attachment, they hold firm to their values.
And what kind of values does a cage begin to have? When it is born, it is soft – its metal not fully formed. Molded into straight lines of force, it becomes rigid with age. Like fancy leather couches with matching dark blue ottomans, at first you feel comfortable. The soft approachability of something quietly waiting entices and when you sink deep into the furniture, you feel its arms wrapped around you. Its only when you stand up and realize that nothing is as comfortable, that you start to feel the pain of freedom. The air stings with emptiness and soon you are left facing the cage. This time from the outside – You beg to be let back in.
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