The pigeons on the air conditioner outdoor unit outside the window fly back and forth, as if they have nothing to worry about.
No emotions that must be expressed—only flying to and fro, then hatching the next generation. A regular yet boring life.
Sometimes I feel like one of those pigeons outside the window.
They hover between the cold machines, land, and hatch another pigeon.
No one remembers their names, nor cares if they are sad or happy—what is there for these creatures to express anyway?
"Pigeons have emotions..." the old man in the flax jacket murmured, stroking the white pigeon feathers.
Their trained ability to find their way, the unique magnetic sense in carrier pigeons' brains. Mechanical life activities are mistaken for the endless beating of a heart, eulogizing a stiff, cold component.
Is it because we have nothing to find within ourselves? Thus, all things become vessels for our emotions—for what humans cannot find or understand, eagerly craving a definition for all unfamiliar things to ease their fear.
Those intense emotions that need to be expressed, that want to linger in time, seem to fade away when the flock scatters.
Sometimes I can't tell—are we the pigeons outside the window, or the humans at the desk inside? Are we growing freely, or trapped in a regular cycle? If the reflection in the mirror and the pigeon swapped places, would everything be more meaningful?
I look into its brownish-black eyes. I want to ask it:
Sir (or Madam; or "a lady who identifies as male," "a gentleman who identifies as female"... as I said, humans always seek special definitions)! What are you thinking in your quiet flights alone? Do you tilt your head out of curiosity? Do you consider yourself pure? Do you love peace? Look at your white feathers—!
Oh, sorry. The gray pigeons in St. Mark's Square would protest.
Then, let's cross out those words.
Look at your feathers—!
But it seems bored. The cramped, narrow platform of the air conditioner outdoor unit can't hold such creatures that fly in the sky.
Solitude, too, feels cramped sometimes—like a space that wants to expand, even as I cling to its familiarity.
This place is just a stop for rest after all.
A life of movement will never stay for a stationary iron block.
So the answer always disappears at the moment of departure.
Therefore, those loves and pains that should have burned are nothing but the wind from the pigeons' wings brushing past the windowsill.
I might as well lie on the classroom floor.
Because I won't stay here forever either.