There is an essay in my head but I cannot get it out
How to free a bird
There is an essay in my head but I cannot get it out. It feels like it is floating, fluttering in one of the grim cages of my mind. It is pretty with flamingly painted plumage, and it feels powerful and delicate yet beautiful in its swimming flight.
There is an essay in my head but I cannot get it out. I imagine how it would look like on paper; the tender tapestry of words, of ironed-out phrases inked together in worshipful communion, of the pristine harmony of sentence and thought, a delicate delivery of sublime pleasure, of maddeningly ferocious virtue and virtuosity, of the transformative power of true, unabashed art.
There is an essay in my head but I cannot get it out. When I do try, it feels like fishing with a harpoon and rather stabbing the watery sea with every thrust.
There is an essay in my head but I cannot get it out. I have not yet fashioned a key to free it from its cage or mastered the incantations to conjure away the mystic chains that bind it, that allow it flutter just within the confines of my head, but not far away as to escape.
There is an essay in my head but I cannot get it out. Its release must be satisfying. Its release must be immaculate to be satisfying. I cannot hack away at its chains and free an amputated bird, bleeding to death, wishing it were locked and alive, than dead and free.
I cannot destroy its plumage and puncture its side because I mean well. It would drool all over my page, bloody-messy, a puddle of puke, of the piece well-intentioned but ill-executed.
There is an essay in my head but I cannot get it out. Maybe I would wait for the day I would be ready, the day I can wield the exact combination of keys. Still I fear because I don't know for how long it would live. In waiting for the perfect time, I may finally bring out a carcass, I may find its hollow bone skeleton instead, light and laid out on the prison floor, plumage eaten away by rot and time.
There is an essay in my head but I cannot get it out. Maybe I don't yet feel enough empathy; if this furious flapping I feel now is all there is to say, that this bird wants to get out more than anything in the world, that I have never really seen this bird if it only had a leg, that as I do it now, the bird will now live among men; happy, graceful and free.
Till next time,