As I look outside my window I see birds. Free, floating, carefree – birds. I imagine myself with them – singing and peaceful – flying where the wind takes me. Then I start to sink – I’m falling. The weight of the world, the pressure in my mind, keeps my wings from supporting me. I am not a bird. I cannot sing like them. My bones aren’t hollow like the birds – mine are weighted down by the past. I cannot go to wherever the wind takes me – I am trapped on the ground and confined to my home. Sometimes even my home only feels like a living space. A space where I hold out for something that will make it feel like a home. I hover at this not-home, wondering if I want to leave.
The birds have stopped singing. The silence settles over me and in me. I crave for more of their song. In the silence my mind is free to think, so I try to keep away from silence. If I think, I know I will have thoughts of regret, wondering, longing. I can’t handle that. I walk outside – still no singing. The birds seem to have flown away. Probably to find a better place to carry on their short, careless lives, because they are free to do so. Is my house this uninteresting to them? Am I so uninteresting?
Without thinking, I start to run. I try to run, it seems, away from my thoughts, my uninteresting house. I run past the neighbors I have never spoken to. I run to the busy road rushing by the end of my street. I stop. Cars rush past, and I look inside the windows. Each person in each car has a life. A life of their own of which I know nothing. Of which I see only an insignificant glimpse. So many lives in the universe. It seems strange that the world has so many to keep track of. It seems beyond me. I wonder if their lives are like mine. Probably worse.
I run to the driveway of a boy who seems to never want to pay attention to me. It puts bad feelings in me; I don’t like to think about his passiveness. Only at night do I sometimes become sad by thoughts of others’ interpretations of me. I push them away. I run past a pumpkin patch – I remember it used to bring me so much satisfaction. Now, it seems like every moment that I should enjoy isn’t as good as I expected. I am left empty – and I wonder why.
I run past another boy’s house. This time it is one who does enjoy my company, and I appreciate him for it, though I can’t bring myself to think more of him. I look up and wonder if the birds ever have troubles like mine. They seem trivial enough for their berry-sized brains. I try not to focus on thoughts only worthy for the birds. That counts for something, doesn’t it?
I have reached the end of the back road. I cross over a fence into a field that never seems to get any attention. It has been my field for two years now. My lonely field. Flowers are starting to bloom – its April. I look up. I see birds. They are singing. Full of life. My heart is pumping, my cheeks, though I cannot see, flushed. My blood is flowing within me, reminding me of the life I have. The life that is meant to be great, not an inconvenience.
I stand, arms open, not imagining myself as a bird. I imagine myself as I was made to be. I open my mouth – and sing. I look towards the sky, at the birds, the only ones who can hear me. I can hear me. And I sing.