Thoughts shall not be imprisoned within my mind, to stamp and shake the bars, to shout through the iron that is flesh and scream at the glass that composes my eyes. Thoughts shall not be imprisoned within my mind, to rage and thrash, to weep and crumple. My thoughts shall be freed, so that my flesh will cease to reverberate with their passion, so that my eyes will cease to remain filmed with their breaths, so that my skull will not shatter.
My thoughts shall be freed, in order to speak so that the world may have the chance to listen, so that they may be heard, so that they may be born into the reality that the body is a part of, so that it is known that these thoughts exist and were contained and then let out from flesh. So that the world may have a chance to listen, my thoughts will not cease; my thoughts will go on infinitely, as long as the flesh hangs from my bones and my eyes, my senses, perceive what is about; my thoughts will speak loudly, as they are accustomed to speak inside my mind.
As I am a part of the world, my thoughts are also. My thoughts will flow on currents of emotion, swift with their sails woven from threaded words, my breath shall push them forth from the realm no map will ever mark, the one that travels miles, the one that was born in one instant, and will die as quickly in another. My thoughts will settle on white islands, void of any contaminating elements. The pages shall belong to my thoughts, my thoughts alone. And so they will thrive, they will build castles with spiraling towers, they will inflame scars that once dampened flesh with blood, they will nail together what has been wrenched apart, they will bring water to seeds shriveled with need. Upon nothingness, my words will find their freedom, they will find one another, and they will stand upon each other's shoulders, press down on folds, flatten creases. They will spread their wings and take flight. Upon paper planes of nothingness, they ride, these words of mine, to be caught in branches, to fall into pools, to disintegrate; wherever they land, they took flight so that they might find a comfortable nesting ground for their delicate cargo, where my thoughts might hatch and one day sing. If none hear my words, if none allow them to nest in their minds, my words will stick in the branches overhead, waiting with their paper wings spread and ready for the next breath that might send them on their way, waiting and ready to drop from the branch and into a head passing below it, ready to wait until the nest is prepared.
My thoughts are my own; they free me of my body's limitations; they allow a wingless creature to soar. My thoughts are my own, and they come from a realm no other may find. I live in that realm. I walk through it daily. Were it to disappear, I would not have a home; I would not have a faith, a dream, a single thought. If it were to disappear, I would be taken away with it. My body is filled with blood and tissue, and yet it is entirely hollow; every ounce, every atom that composes me would have no meaning if it were all to become solid, if the hollowness were lost. I am my mind, but my mind cannot be me. I am the material, what you see is a chest whose contents are locked inside. Paper airplanes fly from the keyhole, and that is how you know this chest is not a solid block of wood. It has content, it has meaning, it has a voice with breaths that fill the sails of my words that transfer my thoughts over to you.
Thoughts shall not be imprisoned within my mind, for my mind is not strong enough to hold them down. The wings are paper, the sails are ink, the breath is mortal, but my thoughts wait patiently in the trees, in the branches, hanging above your head. And now they have dropped. They are hatching.
Raise them as your own, and then fold them once again; give them sturdy wings so that they may travel far, and pass them through the keyhole.
You are no cage. You are no block of wood. You are hollow. Your mind is locked within. But breath still is drawn in and released.
And your thoughts have wings.