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Loosing something once you have tasted it in all its sweetness seems like a worse fate than never having tasted it at all.
Imagination has always been your greatest nemesis, but the crushing weight of knowing what you were missing out on was just plain cruelty.
Once you know what you are missing out on, life back in the birdcage seems awfully dull.
You miss the people on the street, in the park, waiting for the subway. You miss feeling the sun on your skin, walking on soft grass and hard concrete stairs. You miss a wide smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, widening your eyes to be astonished by the world, furrowing your brows in anger at the person who had dared to insult her in such an undignified way.
And most of all, you miss her.
You miss being looked at not like a painting, an object, but like a real breathing person with big dreams and a faint pulse, gone in a heartbeat or three billion.
They are delicate creatures, humans, and though you resemble one, your time is not as limited as theirs. Their time, their one life, is precious. Like a bubble waiting to burst, while it fills a few meaningless seconds with its beauty.
Barley noticed while it was there and hardly remembered when it was gone again, among all the others.
But for a single moment it was part of a symphony that would never have been complete without it. And while it might not have lasted forever, it filled a microscopic eternity with a sublimity that no painting could ever match.
And still, they look at you with an admiration that they rarely display for each other.
She looks at you. She seems to do that a lot ever since that day. Part of you thinks that she´s just doing her job. Making sure you have not escaped again. Part of you – the hopeless romantic part – wishes it were for another reason.
She looks at you and it's the only pair of eyes that matters. Even though hundreds of curious eyes seem to drink you up every day, searching for a meaning within you. And even though you should be drowning in admiration, you seem to be starving, starving for the feeling of truely being seen by someone for once.
She looks at you and you look back. You can see the fond look in her eyes and she can't see how much you wish to mirror her. Academics have written thousands of words about you, but somehow it is that look in her eyes that makes you think that for once someone has understood what, who, you are.
She reaches out for you, for a brief moment, before remembering that touching the paintings is strictly forbidden. But for a brief moment she reaches out for you and you can't reciprocate. Because you are stuck striking a beautiful pose. You want to reach out, touch her. But there is an ocean between wanting and having. And you can't move, let alone swim.
You don't know what higher power had allowed you to meet her, but you wish they would hear your prayers once again. You wish for a second chance. But you have been wishing for a second chance for the past few weeks, ever since you stepped back into your prison willingly but with a heavy heart.
Nobody can save you but yourself. So you stop wishing and praying. And start doing.
You can only hope that your efforts are not in vain as you will your hand towards the linen that holds you captive.
It's not pretty, but after all hope is not a pretty thing; all heavy limbs, bruised knuckles and dirt under bloody nails.
But sometimes it does pay off.
And then it is night. The hungry shadows looming in every corner like sharp-toothed monsters awaiting their victims. A long time ago, you feared them. When they were not as familiar as they are now.
But you are not afraid anymore as you rip apart the prison walls that held you captive for so long once again.
You breathe in and out and in and out and are aware that if you were to stop, your silly little heart would just stop beating. The same way it stops beating for a brief moment every time you lock eyes with her. But so be it. You have willed yourself into existence once more. Once more to see her.
You are human, all fragile flesh and bones, with too many emotions to exist entirely comfortably. It should feel strange, but bizarrely, you have never felt more at home in your body and in the microcosm of your own emotions.
There you are. Changed, but still you. Different, but not a stranger. Transformed not by a higher being but entirely by yourself.
Ready to leave the birdcage. Ready to see her again. Ready to start choosing living over existing.