We all come to the realization at one point that nothing colossal about life can be changed, such as the possibility that it means nothing at all. However, that fact only changes the pain into a different kind of feeling, and if it was a pleasant one, I wouldn't be wrapped up in it every time I looked at the sky. Sometimes, despite the human race believing, and proving in many ways that we are superior to everything else, two or three birds fly across the sky, and with that, I feel that they've won the competition of coming closer to touching whatever it is that gives meaning to life by a long-shot. "They're stupid. They're cute. Good for making quills," we say. Then the bird, without looking at us with its black, beady eyes, arches its neck and dives a meter or two underwater, and bobs up again a few feet away. I always end up staring, in silence, and my eyes glaze over just a little bit, but they aren't little black beads.
We try to teach each other so many lessons, and we each find ourselves believing that falling in love will take away these unpleasant feelings. Well, I'm waiting, and I'll try it. But if it doesn't work, and if after I'm done dedicating my life and writing to emotions of heartbreak and darkness and maybe even a scratch that lets light through, I'll be back on this uncomfortable stump in a forest's clearing, staring at changing, natural colors. If falling in love doesn't work, I'll sit and wait, and maybe another pelican will fly over my head and cry its ugly call as it flies off, maybe thoughtlessly, maybe not, towards the plum-tinted sky that I can only gaze at.
No comments:
Post a Comment