All my life I dreamed of catching finches, masterminding ways to capture them, take them home. Tiny cute creatures, rejoicing in dirt baths, turning gutters into paradisiacal streams as they sipped, easily fitting in the palm of your hand with their dime sized poops. The perfect bird for me.
Kosciusko place platform waiting for the J-train I sat perfectly stoned on a beautiful sunny day, finches playing around my feet. Flying off and on the tracks, up above and on the wooden benches. I realized to love a finch is to let it be free, taking it to my one bedroom apartment is the equivalent of clipping it’s wings. As happy as I’d be, the bird I love would be miserable. Finches were born to roam where they pleased, anyone who took that away could not truly love such a being. Because to love something is to give it a life and environment that best suits it’s needs, not what you think it should be. Someone’s intentions can be great, but if they aren’t speaking your love language what’s the point? Are their instances where you clipped the wings off a bird, even though it wasn’t your intention? Artist: Arts By Fion
