Nothing like that can truly speak to your heart. Why would I speak to anyone’s heart? Would I confirm what I felt back then when I was tormented mightily by the night? The night brought the storms into my life. You can actually feel so much better in the cage when no one is looking but if your birdy perspective is skewed, you cannot help but wonder the life in its representations. You go from a corner to a corner, you would go further but the futility is killing. Why move at all? A cage is always a promise that one day the door would open to let you out, but you already forgot how to survive outside and on your own. You are one of those children who hated horror stories or even any elements of horror within the stories and whose hearts bled when any suffering of yet another creature was mentioned even if that was in the passing. You simply bled.
Those separated you from the outer world. In that room you prayed to the god they had chosen, or he had chosen them to be prayed to, not in a group setting, only in individual expression of your remorse and melody of the rosary. You could have died for the sound of the rosary beads moving and murmuring voices that prayed together. They would gather in a separate room, going there to spend time, children in tow, except you. That was always a mystery why a caged child would be left alone, strapped, silent beneath the overwhelming canopy of chatty stars. You could lick them, you could even grope them if you wished, as they hung low enough to be caught. As a weird eyed child I was entitled to plait a ruddy plait out of the lonelier stars and miniscule galacticas on my own, without expecting anything in return. Not even the door being slightly left ajar to let in some more hope. Not even a dim hope. But then again I hardly knew the meaning of the worlds that hid behind the words, or the pauses or the stares that I was being given. That was beyond any comprehension, while the stars were so much closer, shedding their cold light on me, dumping the light on me when I was already shaking because I had already received too much. The plentiful gifts of daily lonesome birds’ treatment, the beads of water delivered straight to my mouth, then and again. And being fed the soupy remnants from the dinner, mixed with the histerically bulbous seeds, which I hit at with speed, splashing the caky mixture right across the roomy kitchen, which was a major offence in case of a bird like me. I was therefore curbed and prohibited from food for months until I got the meaning of the punishment in the end. Choking on them was the way to escape but I lacked the guts. Yes, we birds do have them.