I find a bird in my home.
I pick it up gently, grasping its delicate legs in the palm of my hand.
I want to find a more delightful place for this bird to spend time. I meander my home. It has no ceilings, only nets. I look for places with sunshine. The bird and I exchange pleasantries. We converse amicably as I look.
I take the staircase up to a room at the top of the house, a giant green net covers the room where the ceiling should be. It’s sunny up here, but no, not good enough for Bird.
I walk through the hallway into another room. Too dark. I make sure not to hold onto her legs too tightly. I want her to be free, after all. She deserves the best.
I enter another room, and another room, and another room. None of the rooms are good enough for Bird, I think to myself. They’re too dark. Or have a boring view. Or something else. She deserves the best, this bird.
I enter the next room, her tiny legs in between my fingers.
It dawns on me.
Freedom is through the door.
I am the prison guard, holding Bird captive.
I wake up.
Am I the bird?