At the Edge of Reality

Doom diving from on high, whooshing past the balcony. Adjusting angle and speed for the perfect hit. No hesitation, no brakes, terminal velocity. Darting to and fro, like a loony woodpecker. Hovering an instant, blinking out of existence the next. Gravity? Flight envelope? Nah, one last wink over its shoulder to you, and the bird is off. Another one dives, another rolls, and the flock caroms over the horizon, a tumbling rainbow of emergency yellow, shocking blue and acid green. The cloud of wings twinkles one last time in the sunrays; they are gone. The Transvaal-blue skies are once again stock-still. Emptiness. Peace.

The European Bee-eaters, these birds, just staged a representation for us at sunset.

African migrating birds.

Never saw them before. Rapture in two representations. Too fast for a picture and yet enough to burn their colours in your mind’s eyes.

The membrane between realities is thin here. They would have loved this show. Maybe they loved it. Probably they love it. They try and bait me out of the grey pictures, the grey albums, the grey memories, the grey days. Remember the jungle, look for the long forgotten realm, see its soul-searing colours! Look, I liked H. Rider Haggard too! Do not forget, remember, see, look!

Did these birds twirled for them or me?

She sits and contemplates the whispering waves of pine trees stretching to the horizon. She jumped to the window to look at the birds. They flashed by, wheeled and darted off. Only remains fading streaks of lights.

She is just happy to be here, on the balcony, alongside everyone. She loves the twinkling colours, sure. But more than anything, she loves that they love it. It is enough.

She spots the birds swishing through the skies. She gives them names and colours, dates and occasions from another time, another place. That is how it was like.

He paces the garden, giving each plant its division, class, order and family. And its Latin name. He sees the birds, looks up. Merops Apiaster. European Bee-eaters. This garden must be on their migration path.

He loves the chirping, twinkling birds: he points, he laughs, he shines. He enjoys life, he delights in it, he revels in it. He is the only true soundtrack. He waits for her.

She is busy. She is always busy. It is good to be busy. It is her duty to be busy. Dogs, cats, kids, daughters. Birds. Beautiful ones, yes. Never as good as they were there. Always so much more to do.

Standing above all, he basks in the sun, smiles and laughs at the birds antics; he knows none of it will last. He savours the ephemerality of it. He breathes in the moment to make it last as much as it can.

Mad Hatter (to Alice): 

You used to be much more… “muchier.” 

You’ve lost your muchness.

These birds flew at the edge of the membrane between reality, time and stories.

These birds are the Life they saw. These birds try and tell me their dreams. Their dreams of me. Their dreams for me.

They speak to the one they see. I have no reflection in the mirror. Practical.

They only hear what they want to hear. I am silent. Efficient.

Mine will always be the dusty sunshine in primeval shadows, the essential humanity and its truths, the untold adventures and the forbidden mysteries. These keep me alive. These are truly alive. A world of infinite possibilities beyond mundane logics.

They told me how much they loved Life. They lied. I never did.

They are coming. I am ready. I always was.

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