Questions I Have For The Birds

Maybe it’s just who they are.

Chirping at 4 AM and squeaking all evening and hoo hoo this, haa haa that.

I can’t believe it’s summer.

Questions I have for the birds: “Who am I?” “What is the meaning of life?” Some folks want to ask more penetrating questions, “How should I live?” “How might one live?” All I’m asking: Why love at all? How do we find an answer if we can’t pin down the question? We may call ourselves seekers but it may be more accurate to say we’re finders, as in we continually find ourselves in this mess together, re-visiting, re-viewing each moment, re-founding the groundwork, as a refresh(ing) machine, breathing in, breathing out… blood pumping… ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum…

Why do the birds sing?

My Love, the truth is:

What you hear is not the birds but [REDACTED], wearing the form of a bird just as one may wear a black dress or colored hair. We don’t know why, but [REDACTED] and the birds sing.

“One takes up the sword in order to shield the small wound in one’s heart that is sustained in a far-off time beyond remembrance.

~

One wields the sword so that one may die happy in some far-off time beyond perception.”

(Berserk, A Wind of Swords, Kentaro Miura)

“What warrior wisheth to be spared?”

(Zarathustra, Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche)

Tell me,

Was it hearts or diamonds, Love,

That led you here to me?

It’s part of the game, no?

Trust a set of cards, stake your life on a chance.

Look — What is the hand we’re dealt? How can we learn? Is this as bad as it could be?

The birds could sing anything, it’s copacetic.