I stare over the impenetrable walls of trees created for me to live in. The lakes filled with crystalline water created for me to swim in. My feathers ruffle, invisible against my back. They long to fly, to be free of the bounds set for me, but as hard as I try, they won’t open.
They don’t really exist, the wings. They are just an idea. A dream. A hope. That one day, however far, I will be wild. Wild as the day my spirit was caught, domesticated, and made to abide by the double standards set for me.
‘Stay wild’, they’d tell me one moment, ‘never lose your sense of adventure’, they’d trill.
‘Behave yourself’, they’d berate the next, ‘remember your place’, they’d warn.
Faceless and nameless, the hive mind of a species I regret to belong to are ever-present in the world, tearing down the forests that I long call home to build endless rows of stifling wooden prisons they call home.
Every fiber of my being warned against succumbing to the comforts they offer.
You didn’t feel the same. Grow up, you told me, learn to love the things that your dignity demands.
Assimilate to the hypocrites, I heard. Stifle your craving for adventure.
But I loved you, so I did. I traded my sticks and stones for pencils. I traded my flowy dresses for tight, uncomfortable ones that squeezed my chest. I traded my freedom and my will for what you called potential.
And I hated you for it. I hated how you asked why I’d lost my life-loving spark, my excitement for each day, my willingness to brave the uncomfortable in pursuit of a thrill.
Can’t you see? You did this to me.
Now I stand, facing what remains of the woods outside the walls of the town you trapped me in, begging my wings to open. The moon shines on my hair which now flows in the wind like honey, free from the tight coiffures you insisted I wear. I now wear a loose dress that flaps around my ankles and doesn’t make breathing hard. I hold a single object: a small wooden carving, the only remnant of the life I lived before you.
I take a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs. I am ready. Ready to flee from the luxury that has softened me. From those who want to mold me, carve me into something for themselves.
From you.
I will my spurious wings to open. I pray that with them, my waning longing to lose all the manners and customs and to flee away into the moonlit night will return.
“I’m done,” I say, softly. The only answer I get is the soft whistling of the wind through the wall of trees in front of me.
“I’m ready to leave,” I say, a little bit louder. Still, the wind rustles through the trees, though it sounds more like a living being, breathing through the trees.
I take a step forward. “I’m ready to fly,” I say, full volume. “Let me fly!” I cry, stumbling a few steps forward. My bare feet are soft, accustomed to the soft soles of shoes, and not comfortable in even the soft grass I stand in.
I’m scared. What if I yell at the treeline until my lungs burn and my voice fades, to no avail? What if I’m not strong enough to leave the comfort and ease of the life I’ve led for the last ten years? What if I’m too far gone to grow back into a child, running through the sun-dappled forest, eyes wide and heart open?
“Let me out!” I plead, falling to my knees. One of them catches on a sharp stone, tearing the skin. I hiss and cradle it, wiping away the red that streams from it.
A tear falls from my eye, slowly crawling down my cheek and disappearing into the grass below. I drop my knee and collapse to the ground, my forehead pressed to the grass.
I’m not strong enough. You were right. I can’t do this. I’m too far gone. Too domesticated.
I continue to lay there, watering the grass with the salty tears that flow freely for the first time in a long time from my eyes. It’s a little freeing, I think, being able to just cry without cold stares or offers of consolation.
Something snaps in the forest before me. I force my squeezed-shut eyes to open, to raise slowly to the impenetrable wall of trees before me.
She stares back at me. My breath catches in my throat.
The embodiment of freedom, burrs in her mane and knots in her tail, stands before me. Her coat is blacker than the night around her, her features delicate yet bold, illuminated by the blue light of the moon.
Her brown eyes call to me, two deep pools of serenity and wildness. Silently, she raises herself to her back legs, her front legs cleaving the air before her. Inspired, I cast one last glance back at the place that had been my home for the past ten years of my short life before flinging myself toward the edge of the forest and the black mare.
She turns and bolts into the woods. I follow, grinning.
The branches whip my face as I navigate through the trees, keeping the mare’s tail in view. I trip over a root and my face collides with the forest floor, but I drag myself up, not wasting a moment, wiping the blood from my nose and galloping after the mare.
My feet are bloody and bruised, my knees no different. My dress is ripped and muddy, my hair tangled and knotted.
But I am free. My wings are spread. The spectral feathers of my soul catch the breeze and lift me higher, higher until nothing can pull me down. I am as free the wind, and as untamed as the black mare who runs through the forest before me.