I remember it like it was yesterday.
I’ve lost sleep over it. I’ve lost keys and notebooks and dreams and desire.
But never sleep.
It always starts the same way.
There are no telltale signs. The only symptom is thought.
The arrogance. Trembling in it’s own flightless fragility, it jumps. Not to soar,
But to lose contact. The birdcage can be where it wants to be. It has wings and it has wheels.
It has no feet, but it is free. Free as a birdcage.
The end isn’t here yet. I have seen it, though.
It speaks to me from the future as the days ripen into night.
The nights, wispy as a dream in innocent smolder,
Carried away by the torrent of thought, catch fire.
And burns. Slowly. Like a fever, unto desperate light.
Sometimes it is the fuel. I dream of watching, as the night bleeds in pain,
impaled by yearning. Sometimes you know what tomorrow has in store.
And you want it today.
Sometimes I tie my hands behind my back.
The sight of them empty is too much to bear.
Every word I speak burns my tongue like coffee.
I’ve learnt to relish the bitter. Some day there will be a cure for the loss of taste.
And some days I love the shock of the cinnamon in my espresso.
But some days it’s too much. So I lock myself in my birdcage and throw away the keys…
… but damn these wings.