I once knew a caged bird who knew how to sing, and when she did her song fell on deaf ears, for they were too hard of heart to listen.
So the caged bird grew and grew, year on year, month after month and weekly with a critic’s ear chirping at her song.
The caged bird grew bitter and bitter with each new word of constructive spite from the critic,
Until the little bird finally had enough and grew hard of heart.
Resolved, the little bird toiled and sweated over a new song that would set her free.
Months of work and days that grew longer and further away from escape.
It all served to make the bird stronger.
Although the bird was caged, in her heart and mind she was already free.
It wouldn’t be that much longer anymore.
Still the critic spewed venom that only fortified the caged bird.
When she finally flew out, she would never turn back, never look back.
The little bird also prayed long and hard to never become like the critic, for she knew words were the strongest kind of weapon there was.
Words had power, words had made the little bird hard of heart.
Yet the little bird used her song to set her apart.
Time seems so far away, but the caged bird never loses hope for the
world beyond its light trappings thinly veiled against a backdrop of modesty and humility.
The little bird also grew to realize that the critic was nothing except bitter. The victim. The wronged.
That’s why they call them critics you know; they always point it out if you have suffered more than they have.
They criticise just how far you truly match up to their septic sceptic rule of character measurement.
Little bird learnt this after years of suffering. Yet the critic still muses whats wrong with little bird?
Why do you never listen? You are going to amount to nothing if you carry on.
Words have power.
Why do you think the poets and playwrights have conquered worlds with a pen?
So the little bird grew to hate, although of course that’s not what she intended, she could not help it but build walls higher and stronger than her gilded cage, that was tarnished with rust, it would never match up.
Nothing, ever again would trap the little bird.
Patience, patience my dear.
At least next year when the winter comes you will be able to fly out, turn your back never to return if you do not wish it so.
Of course the caged bird clung to this hope daily like a talisman, like a magic antidote, like the promise of winter certainly coming was hope personified itself.
It is sad to observe that the little bird knew she would never miss the cage and its ‘best interests’ critic.
She would be glad to see the back of them.