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Rotting Yellow FeathersI am a canary, trapped within a large bell jar. No matter how much I try to fly on my weak wings constructed from hopes and dreams, I always hit the cold glass of reality. It is then that I fall back down again to lick my sorry wounds. Failure tastes like neatly preened feathers.
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And, despite the pain and the hurt, I always forget that the glass is there. Each day I start on a fresh wing, fresh flight, fresh ambition. But, every time, reality lurks with dark and bitter breath. Like countless days before, I fall. Like countless times before, I never learn. I never will.
I've seen other people, people who like me are birds trapped in bell jars. They fly and they fly and they fly until, one day, their delicate skulls become bruised by reality just a fraction too hard. The outcome is always the same. We birds have hollow bones and weak hearts.
They fall to the ground. Dead.
Killed by the dreams that sustained their flight. Hurt by the glass