Thorns from my Bed of Roses
I am back home now. Not that I want to be. I didn’t miss it while I was gone. Is that sad? Poignant? Rude? I didn’t mean to, it just kind of turned out that way.
After my first dog died a few years ago, my parents bought me finches. They were adorable. No more than three inches long, these tiny birds were heartwarming and charming. They lived in a small red cage that stood about three feet high and two and a half feet wide. I loved these little birds. We named them Piper and Arial. Every morning I woke up to their bright, lovely singing and chirping. I would gaze at them for hours on end; watching their flights from one side of the cage to the other. They weren’t in the air for more than a split second before they landed, but it was entertaining enough for me. After the first few weeks of having them, I began to feel bad for them. I felt an overwhelming sympathy for these helpless creatures. They were birds; they were meant to fly, but the farthest they could go was only two feet away from where they started. Did they ever wonder what was outside of their cage? Did they know what they were missing out on? There was a whole world around them, but life as they knew it was a 3’ by 2 ½’ box.
I like to compare my existence to my old birds’. I am here, living and breathing, but I am trapped in my cage. I am being forced to live this fabricated planned out life, made up and formed for me by my parents. Every detail is what they want and what is right for them. Every game is played by their rules. What about me? It is my life, right? I am almost twenty years old, but as soon as I try to fly on my own when the door is open, I am caught and put back in my cage. Locked away from the world. I yearn for freedom; to be able to be independant and live on my own and play by my rules.
When will you let me grow up?
After my first dog died a few years ago, my parents bought me finches. They were adorable. No more than three inches long, these tiny birds were heartwarming and charming. They lived in a small red cage that stood about three feet high and two and a half feet wide. I loved these little birds. We named them Piper and Arial. Every morning I woke up to their bright, lovely singing and chirping. I would gaze at them for hours on end; watching their flights from one side of the cage to the other. They weren’t in the air for more than a split second before they landed, but it was entertaining enough for me. After the first few weeks of having them, I began to feel bad for them. I felt an overwhelming sympathy for these helpless creatures. They were birds; they were meant to fly, but the farthest they could go was only two feet away from where they started. Did they ever wonder what was outside of their cage? Did they know what they were missing out on? There was a whole world around them, but life as they knew it was a 3’ by 2 ½’ box.
I like to compare my existence to my old birds’. I am here, living and breathing, but I am trapped in my cage. I am being forced to live this fabricated planned out life, made up and formed for me by my parents. Every detail is what they want and what is right for them. Every game is played by their rules. What about me? It is my life, right? I am almost twenty years old, but as soon as I try to fly on my own when the door is open, I am caught and put back in my cage. Locked away from the world. I yearn for freedom; to be able to be independant and live on my own and play by my rules.
When will you let me grow up?