A bird flew into my room the other day. Had it missed its line of flight or out of curiosity, I do not know. Nevertheless, the moment it entered, it realised its folly and began flapping nervously. Tired of its failure, perched at the curtain rail, it gazed outside helplessly, perhaps trying to assess the situation.
I do not shoo it away, fearing it could hurt itself in its frantic attempts to escape. I could have posted a picture of that pretty little sparrow in my room. But I hated to photograph a trapped, helpless creature.
The room where I write is large, with picture windows all around. I can gaze from my desk at the mountains, the trees, and the rolling clouds over the valley. I tiptoed and opened each movable section of the window as discreetly as I could, trying not to startle it anymore.
However perplexed and scared that it was, it could not tell the difference between the clear glass windows. The poor little birdie crashed on the windowpane each time it attempted to escape. After many desperate, failed attempts, it flopped in one corner. Trembling. It gazed out at the alluring freedom across the confusing windowpanes. It could see the trees swaying in the breeze and the clouds floating over the mountaintops. It could even feel the wind in its wings through the window frames I had opened.
Tired and hurt, it sat in its corner silently. Perhaps wondering what could be wrong with its judgement. Why does it keep crashing in its attempted flight to freedom . . .?
*
Likewise, I, too, sat at my desk every day, after many failed attempts, tired and hurt, musing . . . gazing at the lofty view outside, wondering which window led me to freedom. Or which attempt could give me a breakthrough? We both sat in our corners, trapped in the same room that day, with the same thoughts racing in our minds.
To my surprise, the little bird rose again, perhaps for another try. I turned away, unable to bear the sight and sound of the failure. The crashing attempts faded each moment as I delved deeper into my thoughts.
*
The sound of the thud had stopped, perhaps a long time now. I turned around with a heavy heart, expecting to find it on the floor . . . dead. I looked for the little carcass on the floor to at least give it a small burial before I left. However, I found it nowhere.
Epiphany! It had found its window. It had wings; it could fly; it kept trying until it found its skies.
Today, as I sat musing at my desk, gazing at the lofty view outside, I found a little note on it, left by that little birdie. It read:
Dear mate, remember!
WE ARE BUT PRISONERS OF OUR THOUGHTS
“You, too, have wings. You, too, can fly.
Rise again; why don’t you try?
To your freedom, out your fly
Don’t you tire, yet another try.
Find your window, and soar in the sky.
You, too, have wings. You, too, can fly.”
-Little birdie, who tried.
Bobby George
Instagram:@bobbygeorge15
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