Intently, I Wonder

In the cold and bleak corner of my 8 x 10 single bed cell, I familiarize myself with the cozy fetal position I am beginning to enjoy more and more each day. Or is it night? Would it really matter more if it were one instead of the other? Intently, I wonder.

The gentle back and forth swaying motion creates yet another comfortable atmosphere. If only they would turn the lights off completely. Night lights were invented as a means of softly illuminating a path in which to maneuver a trip to the potty or to the kitchen for a midnight snack or a glass of warm milk. They were not intended to brighten an entire room to the extent one could read a book, or as in my case, write a story.

I spend what seems to be hours contemplating the notion of flying over the cuckoo's nest. Would I, perhaps, rather gallantly soar than fly? If I elect to soar, I would have the privilege of savoring every minuscule, meaningless moment of being high above the nothingness. On the other hand, if I choose to fly, each flap of my wings would propel me higher and further away from the realm of sanity we all tend to covet - no matter how insane.

I discover myself to be encapsulated by what the caged bird sings, rather than questioning if it sings at all. Surely a song remains in the heart until the soul dies. The tempo would vary between trials encountered and glorious moments captured. The song remains, it just may not remain the same.

What purpose is served by draping a dark cloth over the bird's cage? Is it to provide a comforting warmth or is it a placebo for convincing the bird it is nighttime? No matter the intent, the end result is a disillusioned loss of direction - boggling the mind as to which direction to fly. One can only fly in the same circle so many times before not being able to tell if it is still flying forward.

What life altering lessons does the caged bird learn? What good are the lessons if the bird is never completely freed? Would it not be more compassionate to just put a bullet through the bird's brain, wherein all of the internal turmoil and suffering can be bypassed?

But alas, my head was not designed for placement of a bullet, so I assume the fetal position where I continue to wonder intently.