“Sal y haz algo. No es tu habitación la que es una prisión, eres tú mismo”.

— Sylvia Plath.

Cage

How different is

the gentle song of the bird

when it is free

In Spanish:

Qué diferente

el canto del pájaro

cuando está libre

My father loved birds… caged birds, captive birds. They only had some square inches to jump and sing. Nevertheless, they sang. I guess there are were some primitive force that even captivity wasn’t able to kill.

Now, I think it is better to listen to them in their own environment, in the messy whirpool of their own bussiness: their battles, their loves, their deaths, their births.

I guess we were very different. I guess I never understood him. Maybe, I should have made them free. Some punishment? maybe, but that would have been a good deed.

She was walking the streets, ripped jeans and thinking about James Dean.  Alone, deserted she saw the world but they didn’t it seem.
She never cared either, following the path her mother chose for her.
All she ever learnt was to give up her self for the desire of others. She let them use her, devour her. Destroy her. But never stopped because she loved life. And thought there was hope always. She kept saying to herself “a few years more”. Never give up cause she wanted to live.