As the waxwings and robins crowded around me in the cage, all of them screaming to be fed, I wasn't sure if I should continue caring for them. I had enjoyed my work because I thought the whole process proved that I was capable of both devotion and attachment: I could act like an anxious and overprotective mother for a few weeks and then let the birds go without regret because I respected their independence. In a small way, I thought, I was practicing an ideal kind of love, caring but rational, devoted but not possessive. After I cried about the nighthawk, I was forced to admit - yet again - that there was nothing rational about love and devotion. I didn't like that realization at all.
Kyoko Mori, Polite Lies
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