Why does the caged bird sing?
One could draw it as a far-reaching ideal, a protest despite all chains — though I’ll decline that supposition.
The bird sings because it wants to. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing grand, nor too little neither.
It sings because it wants to; sometimes it must. What else to do in the cage, but dream of the next meal?
Does the bird know it’s in a cage? Eventually it’d come to its senses, as metal is cold to the feather and there’s a clear barrier to the sky outward. And yet one may wonder of the bird who knows not its cage as a restriction, but rather a home and a way of life. That, though there are birds on upon the window horizon, the chibi so nested won’t think it’s real, or find it attractive, or think it even a smidgen of a possibility.
And I dare to state many chibis have scattered themselves across the world, scattered and nested, chirping as though there’s nothing more to it.
And I dare to state why, why they stammer at all!
For this is what’s agreeable (to me, at least). And it’s nice to ignore the latch left opened. I know I can leave, but I don’t. For even with much adventure waiting, and islands to soar near, there’s nothing there that can’t be found in here, in this unlatched cage to the chibi prepared.
Over the course of years and change I find myself collected here, staring at my cage again and writing as though this’ll break the bars; but this is no bar-breaker of a post. It’s a solidifier, or a cushioner, and a painting to which — in its distance — stirs together the cage’s construction. The cage, the internet. The cage, the device. The cage, the food. The cage, the rants found here.
So I write once more. So I write for I want and at times must, for where else do I direct this energy?
In a trance, that much is certain. But these emotions aren’t reactive. Been brewed over years. Whether observing from an apartment deck, a party garden, in-between hallways and construction sites waking: it all condenses into this.
Only in our deficiencies do we come to understand the value of things. Do you feel the pearls waiting within?
And through those deficiencies one may find the deficient position to be more than plenty. And the proclaimed insufficient, excessive.
Though this virtual maze has psychological operations wired in, and perhaps I brainwash myself with them, still I enjoy this position.
And I’ve come to love being alone.
Because the only issue about the singing, caged bird you may become — the only problem is when you find some harmony in echoes. When you hear another one in the distance. Partial, and unpredictable, but you may align your call to it, make a symphony of two, three, however many for the moment.
And yet it is a partial construction, full of bulbous sound and yet incomplete.
Replaying in the memories and comparing to your lone voice, one may be most deceived: to think that one’s own voice crumbles compared to that of many more, only a meager voice amongst a crowd.
You must never forget that no number of voices can replace a passion and the immediate connection with the self. No amount will piece together the serenade you’re waiting for.
No amount, not even a peep — no, if anything you may find the echoes to be siren calls.
Misleading you to search in vain when, in a most ironic realization, that which prompted the search was the echo to begin with.