Nicky. In. Progress.

–and something about design, writing, being an art student and whatnot

Of Freeloading Birds

You’ve heard of stories about true friends, about one who selflessly helps another, down on his luck. Becoming a beacon of hope, a driving force that launches this other to a new and better life, later thanked for one’s kindness.

Reminds me of birds.

Birds with broken wings, taken under the care of a little boy who would rush inside straight from the bus, bag bull of books abandoned at the hallway, all to reach his injured friend, tucked away in a shoebox by the window, every single day until the bird would stand up on its own two feet and fly away, leaving behind a happy boy proud of his deed. Inspiring, no?

Sadly, I have a different tale to tell, of a bird that had overstayed its welcome. Of a bird that, despite the boy’s most honest and desperate of efforts, still hadn’t left its cardboard clinic. Days upon weeks upon months upon years, with its handkerchief blanket and popsicle stick splint, hadn’t mustered the strength to flutter on back to its home.

Perhaps it would be very uninspiring to you that, I admit, I was the boy who’d failed to fix this bird. Even less so should I admit, that I had taken that very shoebox and threw it down the trash bin.

The bird was defective.

Nay, far from it. The bird was perfectly fine. No bones broken, not a feather missing. It was merely its courage to fly. But then how could I, in possession of this cowardly bird, instead of relieving it of its useless splints, teach it bravery and both be on our merry way, choose to leave this sad creature to die alongside yesterday’s garbage?

Simple. I was out of splints.
Out of seeds to feed it, out of water to wash it.
Out of patience to tolerate it’s incessant, annoying, God-awful chirping.

You see, this bird, this ungrateful, pathetic, insolent, deaf sad-excuse-for-a-bird, was taking advantage of me.

It needn’t gather its own food, needn’t build its own nest, needn’t even feet to move. I worried of this bird, worried that it would die when winter came, worried of this fucking-piece-of-shit-of-a-bird. But what did it do for me? Flap its wings once or twice as I enter the room,  convincing me that it was at least practicing, then the second I left went back to sleep.

Am I evil to do so? Am I justifying (to note, an entirely figurative) murder with as selfish an issue as ‘patience’?

Despite me chucking that box to the very bottom of the bin as hard as I could, the second my arm was outstretched as far as it could go, making sure I put as much downward force into the throw as possible, I twitched. Twitched at the thought of a dead bird.

A bird should die when it drops to the snow, cold, as it desperately searched for scraps to feed its pregnant mate. A bird should die in the mouth of a fox, bleeding, as it clings to life to defend its newborn young. I’d rather see a bird die with a bullet through its chest, a hunter’s unfortunate target, an unforeseen tragedy, than to suffocate in a shoebox alongside the trash.

I opened the lid and hoped it would fly out, sooner or later. God knows it can, He himself blessed it with perfectly working wings, brilliant ones even, strong enough to carry it across the oceans twice over, should it choose to do so. Whether or not it would, I tried hard not to care.

Is that still not enough for you? Well then call me heartless if you’d like, hate me even. If you care about this damn bird so much, take it and be on your damn way. Maybe you’d have better luck with the fucking thing.

I don’t need a damn medal. I tried, it didn’t try along with me, so it failed. I failed. I don’t care.

I haven’t the patience to care for freeloading birds.

=====

Y’know I must be in some kind of writing fervor, or perhaps a lot of inspiring things are happening lately. An Essay by Vermin was written just two days ago inspired as I ate in McDonalds with a “religious” person who neglected to clean up after himself and didn’t show any concern in using up lots of those plastic sauce container things, that were filled to the brim yet unfinished, gone to waste.

Of Freeloading Birds was inspired by my outburst at the very same person. After trying to help him for one and a half years, I just got sick of it.

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This entry was posted on November 23, 2012 by in Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , .
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