Psyche logo

The Caged Raven

The raven's wings cease to flap.

By Elijah TaylorPublished 5 years ago 6 min read
Like
Source

Out of all birds, ravens are the smartest. They've always been one of my favorite animals, ever since I was a child. Their wings, once expanded, are a true sight to behold. They are the most majestic creatures in my opinion. Of all animals, this is one to be reckoned with.

Much like crows, ravens are good with faces. If you attack one or piss one off, it will remember you and attack you, basically for the rest of its life. Ravens tend to fly solo, unlike crows who get their friends to attack you and will swarm.

Having the freedom of a raven is a dream come true. Able to come and go as I please; having my old workspace back. I'm unable to fix anything because my mind is stuck and everything in my head is screaming all the time. I have no friends, no money, and no resources.

Mocking again and again and again. Everyone keeps mocking me to the point where I want to scream. Doing so would achieve nothing, so I sit in the silent darkness, waiting for something that will never come. I have accepted my reality, my life unchanging, and my world bland.

Unable to truly get the space I need back in order to create masterpieces, I will just most likely stick to poetry or short stories that no one will ever read, that I will just write to ease my thoughts, or at least have them written down so they're no longer poisoning my mind.

No place feels like home anymore. I feel cold and hollow, a void of emotions. Random spurts of anger, unable to really put to use. Anger and violence achieve nothing. You can let off steam by practicing martial arts like I do, but this only goes so far. I still feel limited.

With no one to talk to, and no true friends, my schizophrenia has worsened and my mind has plunged into darkness. Everyone is an enemy; everyone is after my work, either to steal, mock, or destroy. I have become a recluse. Mothballing my entire scripts/budgets for school because I am unable to attend. Not to mention that with the budgets, if anyone important took a look at them and approved of them, I'd have more money than any 22 year old would know what to do with.

My emotions awry, my mind no longer present, and feeling less and less hopeful about the future. I summon and crave death. I mean nothing to no one and I have no place in the world. I consume and destroy, causing nothing but pain to those around me. Countless suicide attempts failed, now all I can do is fly and bash my head on the bars surrounding my cage, hoping that one strike hard enough will end my torment.

Explaining, talking, or trying to reason; trying to allow myself to be heard is no longer an option. No one will heed my cries or can change my situation. I have truly become trapped. My mind has finally connected the blank spots from when I first overdosed. Back from the world of hopes and dreams, the path that I hoped to carve for my future—gone.

Pushing everyone and everything away, cutting myself off from the world, and everything has made me become a black hole. No longer feeling human, and feeling like everything and everyone that gets close to me physically and/or emotionally just ends up sucked into my gravitational pull, causing them nothing but pain. No one can fix me; I am forever hated, broken, and damaged.

Everything is pointless, the days never truly change. I feel as if I'm slowly dying and everything I write is my final piece. The short stories all swirl together creating my own world, my own bubble. Working all by myself, my biggest fear has become someone else trying to take away everything that I have built.

That's why I miss my old workspace—the vastness, the rain falling on the metal sheets, the wind rocking the walls, creating music. The space to do cartwheels and ballet spins without feeling homophobic or hating myself. I find it ironic, I know everyone hates me, so it would benefit everyone having my old workspace back. I would just be completely isolated, seeking perfection (an impossible task), which would cause me to be unheard of ever again; much like a scholar who has gone to pursue greater knowledge.

I would no longer bug anyone with my voice or amateur writings (not that anyone has seen/heard my work). I would have my space back. The vastness of the area feeling free and open. No longer having to guard my work or voice. No longer being on edge. Even the songs that I have created cease to be heard. They’d probably just be mocked anyway.

My dreams have changed, I no longer like sleep. I no longer dream of him, and even if I do, he is out of reach. Craving his touch, his feel, his presence has become my obsession. No longer having my workspace back, I can no longer extend my wings in an attempt to attract. My voice has dulled.

The sparrow's song has ceased. Each passing day I sing less and less, and my voice grows softer and quieter. I am but a raven whose wings have become broken. With no foreseeable end, I continue to bash my head against the bars until the final days come to an end. This is my infinite loop—bashing and bashing, hoping one final blow will end my existence.

I have no purpose. I have no meaning. My writing sucks, my budget creating sucks, even the poems/songs I create suck. My talents are overrated and pointless. I will never leave. I am forever damned.

Write a script, create a budget, mothball. That is my process that will never end. No one important to send them to. I used to try and send them out via email to a handful of important companies to no prevail. Since I can’t afford to submit them through the standard pipeline, they will most likely just be trashed upon arrival.

Now I don’t even bother. I tried to create a PowerPoint explaining my reasoning and need for my projects. I’m a failure who is doomed from the start. Never-ending mocking only makes me retreat further into this shell, of hatred and rage, ready to implode.

My throat torn, my wings broken, my cage sealed. There is no hope, and no one loves me enough to save me, and more importantly, I do not deserve to be saved. I will only pull them in and hurt them. Like a fallen angel lashing and clawing as a descend.

I am no longer Elijah. I have no name. Names equal power, and I am no one and nothing. If you hear my siren song, do not follow. I will only lead you to jagged rocks and cliffs awaiting your demise.

Any who hear my song is damned with me. You will smile and be entranced, unaware of your impending doom as your ship is heavily breached upon impacting the toothed and cold rocks. Even as you sink, and the cold water fills your lungs, you will wish for nothing but cursing for my demise.

art
Like

About the Creator

Elijah Taylor

I guess I just took the term, "Gay Rights" to a whole other level.

https://www.paypal.me/ETaylor220

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.