A caged bird in spring knows quite well that he may serve some end. He is well aware that there is something to be done. But what is it? He cannot quite remember. But then he gets a vague inkling and he says to himself, “The others are building their nests and hatching their young and bringing them up,” and then he bangs his head against the bars of the cage. But the cage does not give way and the bird is maddened by anguish.
“What an idler,” says another bird passing by.
"What an idler."
Yet the prisoner lives and does not die.
There are no outward signs of what passes within him.
A certain man resembles this idle bird, prevented by circumstances and imprisoned in, I do not know what, horrible, most horrible cage.
He appears as one who is doing well,
one who is quite cheerful in the sunshine...
But then the season of the great migration arrives,
bringing attacks of melancholy.
"He has everything he needs,"
say the children who tend him in his cage--
as he looks through the bars at the overcast sky,
where a thunderstorm is gathering.
And in his heart of hearts,
he rebels against his fate...
One cannot always tell what keeps us confined,
what immures us, what seems to bury us.
And yet one can feel those elusive bars, railings, walls.
Is all this illusion, imagination?
I don't think so.
And one cries out, "My, God! is it for long, for eternity?"
Do you know what makes the prison disappear? Deep, genuine affection. Friends, brothers, love, that is what opens the prison with supreme power, by some magic force. Without these one stays dead.
Where sympathy is renewed, life is restored.
-Vincent Van Gogh-
|We all feel the need to understand our place in life...our purpose. |
Without this sense of direction, we remain helpless captives.
|-Wheat Field With Crows-|