Cagged by Expectations

The box is placed upon us before we are even born, the box feels like it takes away our own identity, stripping away the edges that make us who we are.

Making us something binary. Progressable, easy.

Like a simple sum in a math equation. 1+1 = 2.

It's steals away, the very pieces, that makes us, well us. Our complexity, our duality, our soul.

It is a box containing expectations but, it doesn't end there, it wasnted more. It wanted it al.

You see the box of expectations wants to define all that, who we should be, how we should move, what we should feel, and all that we should ever achieve.

It's a heavy box and, it's fierless in it's judgement. the box of expectations, is the greatest discriminator. It's powerfull, and been hunting us down for centuries. It's powerfull, as we allowed it to be, it 's everywhere and, goes after anyone it can find: Our parents, friends, society and even strangers passing judgment. All contribute to its carbon walls.

It can makes us feel powerless, as if our worth is measured only by how well we fit inside it. An existantce tied to a version of ourselves that never existed. All for us to be fitted in, shapped inside the box.

I hate the box for it erodes the messy, beautiful complexity of being human, replacing it with a neat, manufactured version of ourselves, safe for the eyes of others. Inside it, we are simplified, stripped to our core of what we are, and what we could be.

The box is not your friends it is a box designed to make us easier to handle, easier to understand, easier to categorize.

Labeled, filed, sorted like a mere product on a shelf of a thousand if not millions more.

But labels are brittle, like all simplifications, it is fragile. It handles us as one.

If we think about it then the box easily cracks, it's only carbon after all, it cracks under scrutiny. It shatters when questioned, and in its collapse, it fears, it shouts it rages not at us, but at its own impotence.

For you see the box of expectations was never real:

It was a judgment, a limitation, a cage forged from fear.

A cage disguist as your ownly way out. your only option a roadmap with false routes. Designed to make you doubt yourself, and make you feel lost, the longer you believe in it. The box however is alway's there, ready to make it's comback, it lurks like a hungry devouring predator alway's greedy for more.

Now tell me, my Dear reader: Does a caged bird believe itself free, even when the bars are removed? When the walls it build around it's target vanish?

I'd say it does not. The scars remain, the instincts linger. The memory of confinement is a weight upon the wings.

So, do not blame yourself when the inevitable cycle repeats.

For the box will always try to return knocking at your own front door. It was lurking inside the shadows after all.

Don't forget the weapon, I gave you today, with each crack, with each questioning glance, with each refusal to conform, they box will weaken.

For true freedom is not the absence of boxes. Just like the birds freedom isn't determind by, the absent of it's cage.

Freedom is the quiet, stubborn defiance to live outside them, knowing it's there hidding in the shadows. Even if the world expects you to stay contained. Trapped inside the box, telling you it's easier like a sweet tempress of siren.

Flap your wings and, face the storm. Even when the sky itself looks like it's telling you no.

You simply: Fly and, let your mind be free.