Birds That Talk

I sat there on the balcony, trying to catch as much sunbeams as I could during the small window when the star makes its cameo over the sky of Granite City. I huffed and puffed an Amber Leaf I rolled all crooked, promising myself it would be the last one. That was a lie, of course. Sounds from afar drifted about, mixing with all the voices of my past selves. A seagull here, a car engine there. Every now and then a boat blew its horn in the harbour nearby and I tried not to shit myself at the sound. There was music to it all. Notes rising and falling like lazy sighs on a Sunday morning. Percussions of heeled footsteps intermingling with the groans of those who have had enough of one thing or another. It was hard to distinguish between the sounds of the earth, and the harmonics of inner thought. I breathed in the smoke, and pondered upon this as the clouds shifted about my head.

“I miss shitting on people,” a seagull said “But it seems like they’re doing a good job of it on their own.”

I sat there on the balcony, trying to make as much sense as I could of the world around me. I felt a longing of sorts; a yearning for something I could not name. Something brewed inside my chest. It bubbled and spat as condensation shot out of my eyes and rose into the heavens above. I saw myself walking down the cobbled streets with visions of my sunny home replaced by a gloom that did not have an issue with invading my soul, and braiding itself into my very being. My thighs chaffed together as I shuffled uphill toward an unknowable destination. Buildings sat around watching my every step with bloodshot eyes that held the secret lives of humans. Ranges of human emotions stretched to the brink, wanting to snap but never breaking. Always wishing for something to come along and transform all these hopes and dreams into something more tangible that would last longer than an adolescent love affair. I breathed in the smoke, and pondered upon this as the birds shifted about my head.

“I don’t know about you,” a pigeon said “But I personally think they made a right mess of it all.”

I sat there on the balcony, trying to bring myself back to a version of being that was able to be present in the moment; no more, no less. But it was hard not to stray into closes and alleyways where memory and fantasy socialised and flirted in the shadow of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Where melodies of hope did battle with drones of complacency. Where oppression chained and gagged those who dared to speak words of empathy and understanding. I witnessed myself at that moment all fevered and ill, striving to reject hope like a transplanted organ. But the oppressed broke free and sang their songs of liberty, and hope found a way to root itself into the hearts of those who still had a shred of humanity within their chests. So, the people danced around the sites of fallen idols erected to celebrate hate and fear and oppression and animosity. I breathed in the smoke, and pondered upon this as hope shifted about my head.