More Important than safety

My heart was a wild animal. It would break out of its cage like the chickens that fly out of the coop with little regard for the danger that just ate one of their brothers. No, that freedom to roam and choose and follow the muse is more important than safety or survival. My own heart would disregard safety. And rage and luck. And I suppose I was powerless to control it back then. And so I didn’t. And, even now, when the cage is so much more sophisticated and I so much more adept, I still let it come out sometimes. To hit the window and lie there stunned for a while. Or to go to places that have long since overgrown. Or to visit memories of things and people and feelings gone by. A whistle extended across the marshes. Too high to escape.

How would the corner have existed if not for straight lines of which I know there are none? Not even in a cage. How is it that I can love and hate you at the very same time?