Author: Sandrine Spycher
A cage is such a sinister home. Gray, cold, impersonal. All geometrical with its straight vertical bars. A cage is not a home. It is only a cage. A dead home, like your dead writing. Like those lifeless words thrown on paper in an attempt to reach some other world. Another world which can only be dark. Dark, like the pages covered with words. Dark, like life inside that cage. A life which really isn’t one.
A life which brings death. Like it brought death to the poor bird, killed during the best season. A bird which, locked in the cage, spent a life striving to live a life. A bird which, always condemned to look at nothing else than bars shrinking space into geometrical monotony, suffered a last breath to come out of the cage to make a paper fly. A paper, where dark lines of lifeless marks made up a story. A heartbreaking story relating death. Not the bird’s death, not yet. But your death.
Your death told with her words, her pen, her ink, her soul. Your death leaving her alone. Turning her beautiful into a cage, her fruitful garden into a rage. Her joyful smile sank to sorrow. Her sorrow submerged a heart, which was to be eternally yours, forever and anywhere. Even in death. As she could not live, she turned to paper, to dead paper and dead words. Dead because you could not read them. Dead because you could not love her. Her soul turned to paper. The bird turned to paper.