Thursday, 15 March 2012

Free bird

She cannot live in a place where her wings are clipped.
.
.
.


To her, living is flying.

There is also another kind of living that many around her do. They stare upwards, look for a while, and then look at the ground again. And then they go back in the cage.

They call it living; she calls its existing. She still longs to fly.

The child version of her used to stare up, keep staring at blue.  It was not just the blue that she looked at. The blue was dotted with black. Kites soaring in the sky, higher and higher and higher.

/Does the sky have a ceiling? Like the one in the house?/


Her wings have been clipped before. The funny thing is that they grow back. Whether they were supposed to grow back, she does not know.

/The cage beckons./


The cage is not all that bad, they say. Yours is made of silver and gold, studded with diamonds and pearls and emeralds. Its very pretty, they tell her. It'll keep you safe, safe. She will be protected from all that is evil.

/So go back in that cage, child. The cage especially for you./


She does ponder. But her wings have grown too big, too hard, too strong. They can no longer be clipped even.

/No way back, to that once safe haven./

There are two things that frighten her now. The sky is huge. In the endless void, she will keep soaring, and she will not feel like coming back.

The second thing is the knowledge that she can actually fly. With those wings of hers.

But fly she must. Because for her, this is not the place, not the place.

So fly, she does.