The Cage: by ppp4l9A9


									                                      The Cage:

             I’m in a cage. The bars are unseen, but easily felt. I can run
       twist, turn, but there is no place to hide. I am a prisoner inside myself.

        I want to breathe the air of freedom, but I can not. I want to stretch
     my arms to the heavens, but I can not. Most of all, I want to scream out my
                             frustration – but I can not.

            I am a prisoner. A splash of white in a sea of brown. My prison
       is in the eyes and minds of those around me. I am the outsider – bound
                                by all that label implies.

          Their weapons are their prejudice. The cracked and incomplete
   patterns of a collective experience into which I will never fit. I am the radical
element that bubbles and boils in unexplained ways to mess up their perfect equation
    without fail. And so they fear me like a contagious disease that has no cure.

           I carry the burden of my difference everywhere I go. It is as
      pronounced as the language I speak and the gestures I use; and yet as
fundamental as the colour of my hair or skin. I am trapped inside, and the cage is me.

                               By Tory S. Thorkelson.
                                  (May 19th, 1994)

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