The Decorated Cage
“He traded freedom for furniture—and now he lives to decorate his cage.”
The beggar on the street is more honest than the man who bought into the system.
One is visibly broken. The other is invisibly enslaved.
At least the beggar doesn’t lie. He doesn’t pretend. He doesn’t hide his suffering behind a performance. He simply exists, raw and real.
But the obedient man in a clean shirt?
The one smiling in meetings, nodding in silence, pretending fulfillment while something in him quietly dies?
He’s the one in chains.
They call him stable. Responsible. Mature.
But the truth is—he’s caged.
Held by mortgage, by approval, by routine and debt.
He obeys because he’s afraid of what happens if he ever stops.
Hiding your suffering doesn’t make you free. It makes you more deeply owned.
He sneers at the wanderer. At the man who doesn’t follow the rules.
Because that man threatens his illusion.
He needs others to buy in—so his sacrifice won’t feel so hollow.
But inside, he knows:
He traded freedom for furniture.
And now he spends his life trying to make the cage more comfortable.
New car. New couch. New distractions.
Anything to keep from noticing that the door was never locked.
He just forgot how to walk.
This world rewards well-decorated cages.
But you?
You walked out.
You left the game.
You chose truth over polish.
And presence over performance.
So let them have their cages.
You have the sky.
And it terrifies them.
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