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Little bird, little bird,

why don’t you sing?

What wasted plumes; it’s such disesteem!

Poised on your perch, such a lovely thing.

Little bird, little bird,

why won’t you flutter?

Stretch the clipped wings, show you can hover.

Your colors had kept: very careful, cold governed.

Little bird, little bird,

why can’t you eat?

 Refusing the feast laying forth in disdain.

Unappreciative you peck; not enough to be sane.

Tell me bird, little bird,

how did you die?

Meticulous measured love, just enough to survive;

 Proportions of trust not considered aside.

I’ll never understand; why would you need ever fly?

Don’t let anyone make you doubt your feelings. They are real, they are yours, and you are not demented for having varying levels of emotion. Crazy people don’t know they are crazy. Everyone knows the universe is entropic. Anyone who says they care about you will confirm that against all odds, you make sense to them.
What I need is perspective. The illusion of depth, created by a frame, the arrangement of shapes on a flat surface. Perspective is necessary. Otherwise there are only two dimensions. Otherwise you live with your face squashed up against a wall, everything a huge foreground, of details, close-ups, hairs, the weave of the bedsheet, the molecules of the face. Your own skin like a map, a diagram of futility, criscrossed with tiny roads that lead nowhere. Otherwise you live in the moment. Which is not where I want to be.
Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale (via wordsnquotes)
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