My friend has a tattoo of a bird in a cage on her left arm. She says that when she goes crazy (which she’s expecting to do at some point, I guess) she will get another tattoo on her right arm of the bird freed from the cage.
So is it the caged bird who sings, secured in her cage?
Or is it the bird who’s too busy flying above the clouds weightless; his wings flapping in a rhythmic trance?
Is the little metal gate of your cage open, or are you comfortable in the confines you’ve made for yourself?
The cage never existed. Happy travels!
Photographs taken from the Manos/Mundo/Corazon: Artists interpret La Loteria exhibit at Columbia College Chicago.