Birdcage

Alone. Alone. Alone I sit—loneliness as a birdcage that is a cage alone; housing no bird but only a feather, and a feather alone. That is like I: a lone feather, sitting in space. A space that is blank, a blank space, blank, blank, blank it is paper white, white as dove, white as the ice age; an empty space that is, an empty place, but a place nonetheless. So, I sit, like a lone feather inside a cage alone, waiting for something and waiting for nothing. It is at this point I say to myself alone: "if only, if only, I did have a quill. Oh! What a company would that be—to have a quill. To write something on this empty space, empty like a birdcage is empty without a bird; with I, like a feather, alone—lost in a white space." Suddenly, magically, from the white appeared before me a quill!
Upon having the quill grasped in my hand, I rejoiced and I began to write, but was disappointed quickly upon realizing my quill was without ink inside its shaft. Moved, now, strongly moved, I longed, longed, longed for a bit, bit, bit of ink inside my quill. And, from my own will, and my will alone, I created ink! I then began to write, write, write.
I wrote in the endless space of this white place. Words, black, stood still in the space, everywhere. The more I wrote the more black became the space around me. Blacker, blacker, blacker, became the space. Animated creatures, speaking creatures, breathing creatures, began to form all on their very own. Things began to appear from the white without I having written it to life.
After writing so many things, I grew tired, I grew bored, I ran out of things to write, I ran out of things to do. The last thing I wrote: "is this all that's real? Is this all I can do? Write words and creatures and things? Is this all there is to this white space? What is this place? What is this place? What is this place?" I then began to climb the words I wrote to try to reach the very top of whatever this place was, but it was endless and I soon grew tired of doing that, too.
I grabbed then, my quill again, to write. Crazier became the things I wrote. Darker became the the things that appeared from the whiteness of the space. Madder became this once white place as madder became my own writing. Then, the white space began to bend and a twirl of black took form in the distance. All the words I wrote, all the creatures, everything I created came crumbling down. The space I walked on shook. The white trembled and the spiraling blackness began sucking and eating everything I created. I panicked, my heart pounded, pounded, pounded. I took my quill and stabbed the white space to hold on to so I wouldn't get sucked into the black hole. But I couldn't hold on, the force of the black twirl was too strong.
Black, black, black, was now everything around me, but adazzled with sparkles of white pulsing specks. In front of me, on a ground of dust sat a white birdcage, broken. With nothing, not even a feather. They say, the mind is a cage, so that makes me free from the keeper of mine. I am free, I am free, I am free.