Today I envy the birds. Not for their ability to fly, though, I can book a flight. I can go wherever I want. But for the fact that they can tuck their heads under one of their wings and blank out everything they don't wish to see and hear. Even the wind won't reach them under their feathers. But I don't have wings, and so I have to listen to the world and what it has got to say and observe the backdrop that is put into the limelight of my attention. And while I watch the scenes go by, I make a sad discovery: I am bullet-proof. In the end, I am. Every projectile that is fired at me bounces back and leaves nothing but a little dent behind that will fix itself quicker than I would like it to.
I have an explanation for that and it is far away from being a sensational finding but I tend to forget. I forget that they, that you are not me. You are you. And your rational and emotional gear wheels interlock differently than mine. Even when we stand on the exact same spot, listen to the same sounds and see the same images, you will turn the heard and seen into something entirely different than I would. And I won't try to impose my perception on you. You live your life. And I live mine. If I like what you find in the universe, I will make a decision and stay around, without reservations or conditions. If I don't like what you come up with, I just turn around and go. In some instances I will tip-toe in silence, in others I will tumble or stomp. I might be sad but when it comes down to it, I won't be sad about what you are not, but about the fact that my head and heart didn't manage to stay away from brush and colour and painted an identity onto your face that was based on my workings not on yours. I can't be sad about what you are not, can I? After all I picked you for a reason. I picked you because you are what you are. If ultimately you do what you do, I will just wish you luck and hope that you will be fine even if your decision is antagonistic to my ways.
I promised myself something a while ago. I promised myself that I wouldn't want to keep everything forever. Some objects and figures are only good enough for a cameo appearance if you refuse to put them into different clothes. And I do refuse. A chicken won't become a sailor only because you place a captain's hat on it's head. And so I let you breath a last breath on my stage and turn around to carry home a tiny bag of sadness that my reason will identify as irrational disappointment as soon as I unpack it. Because this is the way I work. The question, what is worse, sadness or disappointment, I pass on to you before I stow away brush and colour. For good.
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