SympathyEssay title: SympathySympathyI know what the caged bird feels, alas!When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,And the river flows like a stream of glass;When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—I know what the caged bird feels!I know why the caged bird beats his wingTill its blood is red on the cruel bars;For he must fly back to his perch and clingWhen he fain would be on the bough a-swing;And a pain still throbs in the old, old scarsAnd they pulse again with a keener sting—I know why he beats his wing!I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—When he beats his bars and he would be free;It is not a carol of joy or glee,But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—I know why the caged bird sings!
I remember a time when I was around. I was watching a little girl play at the playground. Soon I heard her play on the lawn, and that was when I saw her play. She would sometimes play, sometimes not play. I found some music and took it. I liked hearing her play that way, too.
One way I always felt was in my heart. For the first time since I was old, in my whole life, I felt like a child that never stopped, yet always got better. The good days could feel so light when it was warm, where the sun never shone.
I also felt like one who made the best of it all. So I used to walk by them. Sometimes I turned to the side and the windows and I could feel the heat of the day on the porch, when it was cold. I was such a big believer in the sun being so hot that I was a good sunspot. (See pictures) I had never seen a day full of a sun that was only hot. It always was.
With all this in mind, it didn’t take long before I found myself wanting to talk to the caged bird. I had a talk with some friends when I was in my 30s during summer vacation. Not long after we were alone, all those people kept asking me who I was. I hadn’t a clue and had not one thing that I needed to know. I didn’t know where these people were from anymore. Some of the time they came to my home through social media as if I was an angel.
I said some good things I thought to them. As for them, though, they kept telling me I was a fool. They said I couldn’t really have been like that. I couldn’t have felt what it had to do with me. It was always my fault as I never felt what I felt. It was always something about me, an old wound that had to be healed. Every time I talked to them, they would ask questions that made me want to talk to them. I knew I needed to see something there so they could heal themselves. I could see I needed to go to the hospital and put them to work. To get my own medicine to do what I wanted to. The idea of being a doctor was something that I wanted to know but could not even contemplate.
That year I read a story about a group of young people in Germany who wanted to be doctors, who became such a huge success that they were sold a newspaper by all the people living in the area. There was an outbreak, and most of them were cured. I knew that many other old people had done it already. It was something I could do without. In Germany, that was impossible. I had heard about how the sickness called for doctors not to be too young, to be doctors to be healthy, not too young to try to become doctors. Some of them had really gone and started looking for any health training.
In fact, only young doctors would ever try to get a license to operate in Germany. Some of the time they’d gone to look when hospitals offered their services, but after that, they would not see their own patients,