Taking flight
Two weeks ago, I saw a dead pigeon. It could’ve just been a dead pigeon, I mean, it was indeed a pigeon, and considering its flat appearance against the tar, it was definitely dead. Poor dead pigeon, I thought, as I carelessly galloped over it to complete my third set of the 400m run.
After that day, I ran past it a few times. I still do. Interestingly enough, my acknowledgement of its lifeless presence didn’t cease to be as days went by. In fact, like unforeseen statistical research findings, it decreased in intensity and increased in awareness.
Now, when I see it, I point towards it like an old mate, oh, look, there it is. Part of me, in disgust, vaguely saddened by the exposed decomposition. Yet strangely, another part of me in an awkward familiarity of the morbid scenario, whispering some absolutely irrational hello buddy as soon as I spot it from afar.
However, the most memorable aspect of this particular poor dead pigeon isn’t its fairly depressing demise, nor the fact that his fellow companions live in a deck with a privileged view of its decay. But when the salty winds come along — and we all know how frequent those are standing at 20m from the salty river and 7km from the shore— they insist on lifting a few millimetres of the pigeon’s crushed wings from the ground.
It’s a mundane happening indeed, as this is definitely not the first pigeon in the world to be in a state of deterioration in the middle of a road. But the circumstances made me come to a rather constructive realisation. The poor dead pigeon has no choice but to stay glued to the surface and never submit to the wind’s predisposition to make those wings fly again. But with an operational pulse and relatively intact anatomy, what’s our excuse to recoil in voluntary denial instead of submitting to flight when the wind startlingly blows our way?
I know one day that evanescent body won’t be there anymore. Winds shall blow it towards the neighbouring grass, the sun shall burn its hint of self that still remains, or the high tides shall swim it away towards the river as in a failed attempt to replicate some glorious Nordic warrior funeral. But as long as I remember how that poor dead pigeon, in its inevitable stillness, was able to catapult this reasoning and uncalled awareness... I guess most ephemeral episodes of hopelessness shall end well after all.
This piece was originally written on August 16th, 2020.
