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If I Were a Bird

Writer's picture: Feef MooneyFeef Mooney

 


It’s shocking at times to admit what I have denied.

Almost as though I could peel away my face, to reveal another layer.

If I were a bird, would I be a crow? Could  I caw at the moon? Could I flap my wings and seem to turn the whole sky dark? Do I relay messages of importance to the heavenly aviary? Or am I yet another sound signifying nothing to the 99 percent?

If I were a bird, would I wonder: what is my song? Why do I sing it? And who hears it?

If I were a bird, I would do my bird thing. I’d fly, I’d poop wherever, and I’d make my sounds.

I’m not sure how long I’d live. I might find a mate. I might be eaten by a cat. I might have the longest flight. I might soar high.

I would have to protect myself from predators. I would not want to be shot down. Or attacked by someone bigger than me.

I’m going to pretend that life would feel good. Flying would be fun. So would communicating.

I like being a human being, but I don’t like thinking so much. Not that I want to be on autopilot.

I’d like to sing like a bird whenever I felt like it.

I’d like my artistic impulses to feel that instinctive.

I’d like to move forward with out questioning, or canceling at the last minute, or having a headache.

I went out two days ago, and literally bumped into someone I hadn’t seen in 20 years, She said my name:”Fjaere!” (Fierra, for those of you who know me as Feef.) I was stunned. But in a good way. I love her.

If I hadn’t left the house, this would never have happened. I would have missed part of the magic that is real life.

Real life happens. Fake life builds a cage and makes excuses.

Real life ventures out.

Fake life has all the answers. Real life is an unfinished sentence, not a prophecy.

I forget that sometimes. Nature is going on. The forces of nature make pink sunsets.

Did I close my curtains?

A musician, I think, is a bird.

Every bird has its song.

Every bird needs to sing.

One song is part of a kingdom, an auditory splendor.

It’s a cacophonous choir, no doubt.

In a city of venues and nests.

The flimsy cage has always been open.

I know you are out there with your own special message.

It was made in you when you were born.

Keep at it.

I will find you.

 



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