Are birds really free? I’m sitting on my front porch sipping a hot blackcurrant drink (hoping to squash the last rebellious bit of flu) when the bird landed on the road and hopped up into the sidewalk in front. It pecked at something and flew off. ‘Free as a bird,’ I thought.
‘Was it though?’
I’m not free. I wake each morning weary, not necessarily tired, but weary. Each day brings a round of unpleasant and boring activities tortured by moments of pleasure and interest underlining the low grade dread.
Are birds free? Or are they driven too by low grade dread each day? And judging by the never quite dark of a city night, and the birds I hear when I am awake at 3 a.m., night dread too.
Maybe the moments of creativity and the bursts of intellectual delight are what set us apart from other creatures. Maybe their lives are consumed by constant struggle while we are granted at least moments of joy.