I am a weary soul

The worst part is when I cannot move; pinned in place like a still-living butterfly on a mounting board. Almost as bad is when I can flap a wing and dream of flight and then I become aware that I am still encased, the glass mere microns from the tips of my wings. It is a struggle to struggle, but it is sad to not. I am overcome by weariness. Not like before, younger days, when I grew tired from activity; but more a weariness of the soul, a weariness from the realization that despite all that bouncing and hopping and thinking and planning and dreaming and believing, I have always been trapped - enclosed - encased. But in those younger days, in all my activity, I was smaller and the glass was unseeable - imponderable - invisible. Today it is right here - conspicuous - obtrusive.

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