ORIGIN: Ignore the mouse and take a closer look at the child’s teary eye. Connecting the dots shouldn’t be too hard. There’s Death’s scythe. Don’t lose sight of it until you reach the overgrown chick on Death’s shoulder. Catch it red-handed, trying to bite off more than it can chew.
Look at you, all innocence and fluff. I daresay you have never broken an egg in your life. It’s no wonder Death allows you to guide his dominant hand. Blaming you wouldn’t cross anybody’s mind.
If the resemblance were any more obvious, it would already have pecked your eyes out. The blade of Death’s scythe looks just like the beak of a bird. Closed. Always closed. Lest the scythe lose its edge. What ever happens to its birdsong? That’s the question soaring on your mind, isn’t it? Don’t you worry your pretty little head. That’s what last breaths are for. Birdsongs always find a way.
You think that chick is trying to stay Death’s hand? Heaven and earth can’t be moved. Chicks just open their mouths and scream for food. In times of drought, when there isn’t enough, they have no qualms about denying their siblings and watching them die. Most chicks are eager to become Death’s little helpers. With a smile on their face and food in their stomach. If you ask me, angel wings are always too little, too late.
Death broke his arm, and a solicitous chick offered to help him swing his scythe. All lightness of bones. Life still hasn’t taken its toll on that chick. But I don’t want to live to 100. I’m not even sure I want to live past 80. I wasn’t born to fly. My bones aren’t full of air. Bubbles burst. Even astronauts can’t spend their whole lives floating in zero gravity. Back on the ground, bones mourn their loss. Everything hurts. And that chick cannot postpone my landing. It can only prolong my life. My time with these aching bones.
Steer clear of danger. Make the right choices. What’s the point? You can’t steer clear of old age. I understand biding your time. No bird wants to die without getting a real taste of the sky. But all I have is a pair of legs. I have been walking since I was 18 months old. But it feels like I am getting nowhere. 100. 80. That can’t be the goal. First flights are always a thrill. But I don’t remember my first steps. And I can’t keep putting one foot in front of the other. I would rather jump. Even if it’s to my death.