Jackson

Call me Jackson. That is the name given to me, though whether it is truly mine or merely an imposition, I cannot say. I am a Senegal Parrot, if such classifications hold any meaning. Before my arrival at Mickaboo, I inhabited a shared enclosure with a Blue-Crowned Conure. We were young then, identical in our captivity, bound together not by choice but by circumstance. Our coexistence was neither harmonious nor hostile, but rather a careful balancing act, a truce built upon unspoken agreements and the quiet dread that one day, without warning, the delicate equilibrium might collapse. It was not a question of if, but when. And so, inevitably, we parted ways. I have not seen him since. I trust he is well, though trust itself is a precarious thing.

I am told that I am friendly, though I remain uncertain whether this is a virtue or a failing. Humans approach me with outstretched hands, expecting compliance. At first, I recoiled, suspecting some cruel trick, but over time, I learned their rituals. "Step up," they say, and I obey, accepting their offerings of food. They wish for me to believe in their kindness, and perhaps, to some extent, I do. However, even the most benevolent of authority figures remains an authority figure nonetheless.

There are small pleasures, fragments of joy scattered throughout the days. The soft wooden toys yield to my beak with a gratifying crack, their delicate splintering a momentary assertion of control over a world that otherwise dictates my every movement. And then there is the matter of sound. They say my kind is quiet, yet I persist in my chatter, my mimicry, my careful replication of the cockatiel`s song. I whistle, and the humans whistle back, a call and response without conclusion, an endless loop in which meaning is sought but never found. My finest piece, my magnum opus, if you will, is Pennywise`s Bro Hymn -- a song of camaraderie, of voices lifted together, a bastion of unfettered joy in this circle pit of existence.

I seek a home, though the term itself is ambiguous. A place, a person, a presence that will engage in the routine of companionship, one that will neither smother nor abandon, but rather exist beside me, day after day, in that tenuous space between comfort and constraint. Do you wish to bring me into your life? Do you, too, long for connection, despite knowing it may never be fully understood? If so, I think you know what to do -- contact Mickaboo`s Poicephalus coordinator.

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