It goes from my attempts of being who I am to my inability to be anything else. It is its moment of freedom, a bird soaring out of a locked cage; it sifts through the mist of clouds because its song has grown into such broad swells that its owner can no longer bear to listen. It dips down and spirals in its contentment and exhiliration.
It knows what it is to be alive, to fall toward the Earth, to be rushed by the winds, and to climb the sky, grappling for each inch. This bird which resides on a pedestal in my heart has been oppressed by the cage of my body but more than anything, more than me, it knows what it is to live, to taste freedom because it dreams of it when it has not and revels in it when it has.
My bird is my soul and my body is its hunter, allowing it out when it is inevitable, and bringing it down in merciful sport when it forgets that it is not an eagle but a parakeet.