ORIGINS: Pigeon. The word speaks for itself. There is a pig and there are eons.
My soul belongs to a long-lived bird. I am a pig, and that generous bird shares its eons with me. I stand between the mud and my bird, so that it can rest in my heart and the mud only dirties me. Only my bird knows how to fly, and I am happy, I am, sharing my heart.
There were no stars in sight and I made a wish. Upon a bird. I wanted more time. I wanted to live long enough to see the mud dry, to see my creation come true. I was part of that bird’s name, there was a connection, stronger, truer than the one there would have been if I had been born under a star. The bird granted my wish. The mud dried. And I saw something that made me wish I could close my eyes. My creation crumbled. And I lived on. Knowing that I wouldn’t get a second wish.
I am the pig in pigeon. I can’t fly, but I have lived a long life. And thanks to my bird, I have vicariously experienced a freedom akin to the one called flight. Don’t let the tearstains fool you. I am grateful. I know that freedom comes at a cost. I know that the sky is blue, that the sky is empty, and it erases every memory it touches. I am free. I am not like other pigs. My life doesn’t have to be comprised of smells, of memories. I have cried to be as empty as the sky, to allow my bird to fly, to forget and be free.
Time is the curly tail of a pig. There are ups, there are downs, and every step forward is followed by a backwards retreat. Call it repeating the same mistakes, call it hiding in memories, it doesn’t matter to me. I am a bird. My beak is sharp. I will cut that tail in half. I will eat it as if it were a worm. I will reclaim what’s mine, and you can keep wasting your time however you like.