bird in a box

Day after day I sit like a bird in a box. My box has no lid, but I still don't fly away. My wings are clipped by the guise of security and the fear of change, and I have forgotten how to leap into the sky unfettered and unafraid.

I am lucky that my box only lasts for a time. I can go home at the end of it and still find peace, still find warmth and love and home. But the box is a cold, unfriendly place, full of unnatural light and cold air and hard feelings and coarse hearts.

This is my escape. This is my window to the world and my reminder that freedom exists outside of my box. This is my memory of the sky and my dream of the future with orange-colored days and endless flight. If I had no keyboard on which to type, my words would spill onto pages, hoarded and purloined. If I had no paper, they would rattle around in my head, banging at the windows, kicking at the doors, screaming to be let out. If I had no words...

I would be content with my box.