shoelace009 (shoelace009) wrote in creative_genius,
shoelace009
shoelace009
creative_genius

The caged bird sings because it must.

Sometimes my heart plays its own vital tune. Sometimes it sings from my chest in a way that I cannot breathe, cannot look about, cannot think of anything but the notes surging through my skin to meet the music or words making their ways toward me. It is a true, untainted song left free from the burdens of my own self-image, self-conscience, and lies. It goes from being what I think, what I think I should think, what I say, and what I think I should say, to what I am.

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.
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