The Bird with Too Many Questions

TW:Depression

I read this poem in freshman year English. It’s about a bird being stuck in a cage and how no matter how hurt the bird is after its’ multiple attempts, the bird keeps on trying to get 

out until it’s free. What if the bird has no idea on how to get out? What would the bird do if it escaped the cage, but then jumped back into a worse cage?  What if the bird doesn’t know what freedom even looks like?

The green couch was covered in blankets and food crumbs with a girl in a deep sleep strewn on 

top of it. Her phone rings and she hurriedly goes to turn it off before seeing the name, Amanda. The girl knows to answer the first time, Amanda calls because if she doesn’t, well, let’s just say there’ll be many more consequences than if she had just answered the first call.

“Hello Celia,” she said excitedly in a deep British accent. “I’m sorry, I know you said ‘Stop calling me at 8 am in the morning’ and ‘Stop saying my name in a British accent’. I would like to say though that, as I’ve said before your name is really fun to say in a British accent. Also do you want to go to brunch with me today? I know you-”

“Amanda,” she mumbled. “How do you even expect to go to brunch with the world’s current, you know, pandemic?”

“There’s plenty of places to go to that have outdoor-dining and remember that one Sunday brunch at my house where we made that amazing spread together?”

“I’m not available.”

“But we haven’t seen one another in two months,” she complained. “What are you even so busy with? 

“One, your memory is still the worst. Two, we saw each other like the other day for New Year’s Eve. Three, I have an incredible assortment of streaming services to occupy my time,” she countered.

“What are you even talking about,” she said irritated. “Tomorrow’s March 13th and I always reach out but you’re never trying in this friendship anymore”

“I have to go,” she stuttered. 

“What, why?”

“Sorry, let’s talk tomorrow. Bye.”

“By-”

The girl ended the call. When she got the courage to look at the date it was in fact March 12th. 

Every few months, she has a realization that her moments of relaxation haven’t just been moments, but unaccounted time she’s wasted. That feeling of wasting time, the amount of work, social events, life, she’s missed out on worries her even more. This cycle of hopelessness has repeated so often to the point where the best option she has decided on is to go back to sleep. Because when you’re sleeping there’s no need to worry about anything, and even if there was a need… You can’t worry unconscious, at least, knowingly.

My thought process used to be “If I’m the best at this,  they’ll love me more”. When I realized that wasn’t the case at all, it changed to, “If I’m the best at this, I’m one step closer to leaving this place”. Why is the social norm that we should love and care for our family just because we have the same blood? And why isn’t that love equally given if we have equal blood?

The mother and young son hurried through the apartment complex with a small, white box in hand, and a key in another's. They burst through the door and broke out into a, usually, joyous song. 

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Celiaaaaaa, Happy Birthday to youuuuu” 

“I think she’s dead,” he whispered.

“Steven, don’t even joke about things in that manner,” she scolded.

“I’m not even joking, look at this place, it smells like as- ah- anchovies in here.”

“Celia’s young, it’s her birthday, when you’re twenty-four I’m sure you’ll have a few wild nights just like her,” she opened the fridge. “She seems tired, let’s just leave the cake and a note. We can call her later.”

He sighed, “Look at how much spoiled food and alcohol is in here. Don’t you mean a few wild months?”

“Come on we need to leave to send your dad off at the airport.”

“He doesn’t care if we're there or not,” he grumbled. But it didn’t matter because she was already walking out the door, with one glance towards his sister, he followed his mother’s footsteps. And his sister opened her weary eyes and saw the flash of the boy’s back. She tried to call out his name but was met with the slam of the door before she could even finish. 

What defines someone as successful? Is it how rich they are? How smart? How beautiful? How happy? Their friends? Family? Accomplishments? Maybe even, happiness? But then 

how do they know if they’re truly happy?

The girl was taught the importance of money in this world. Money buys everything. It runs the world.  So the girl did the internships, studied for the tests, did the work, and it exceeded far greater than anyone else. She got the money and the life she wanted. But, she had to ask herself, was she happy? She wasn’t sure. 

The lockdown came which gave her a perfect opportunity. “Two weeks of relaxation would be good for me.” She did all the things she was waiting for a time to enjoy, painting, playing piano, writing stories, and even taking up knitting. Then there were all the shows she had missed out on. 

Two weeks flew by, then another, then another, and she quit her job. She told herself that she wasn’t happy and she was “successful”, she didn’t need more money. She was going to find a job that made her happy was what she told herself. 

She never found that job. She never found the passion she said she was going to find either. Or learn that new language. Or become a photographer. She’d done so well in one aspect of her life, that without it, she was lost. She didn’t want help and pushed away people that started to try.

But somewhere along the line she had been slowly unraveling more and more until she was unrecognizable. Mind, body, soul hanging by a thread? There was no thread. It had been chopped into a million pieces. The mind, body, and soul were long gone by the time anyone had fully noticed.

This bird can’t even try to do anything. This bird is hopeless. This bird is exhausted from doing too much of nothing. This bird is trapped in its cage but is too scared to get hurt in the process.