The Canary

I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will which I now exert to leave you. ― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

A fat yellow canary stretches its wings with the intention of preparing for a moment that will never come: free flight. Liberty. Escape.

The bird’s human is shaky. Her shoulders shake and shake and shake. It’s rather troubling, isn’t it?

Never mind. The blonde human continues stuffing things into a canvas sack as the canary edges closer to the window. He listens to his shrieking kin outside, whizzing between the trees like fleas. Oh, how he wishes the human would quiet her sniffling so he could eavesdrop on their barbaric conversations!

The human is grabbing everything around her to take along. She doesn’t seem to consider the canary though. This is worrying to say the least, as this particular human is quite nice. Her significant other doesn’t pay nearly as much attention to the canary as he would like, but would rather stumble about the house with an empty bottle in hand, yelling obscenities at flower pots.

No, the canary prefers this human. She lets him out of the cage sometimes, to flit about the living room before she captures him again, to stuff back into depressing paradise.

She has stopped now. She steps towards the window, the canary’s window next to his gilded cage, his only link to the world that his pea brain sometimes doubts actually exists.

She pushes open the window and breathes in. The world outside is immersed in a wash of turquoise and bulbs of yellow luminosity. The canary shudders when he hears a cat meow. His kin are suddenly silent.

She sighs, before looking at her pet.

“You are intelligent, chéri,” she cooes, stroking the cage, “but I must… escape this life. Je suis fatigué… je suis fatigué.”

She wears a drained expression, her dark eyebrows pulled together.

He chirps. Her puckered mouth shapes itself into a lopsided smile, before she opens the door of his cage. She then turns, grabs her bag from the floor, and flees the room. She’ll continue to flee until she returns to her own kin, in a distant land.

The canary regards the open cage door. Fear rocks his chubby body. His paper thin wings are suddenly heavy, and he wonders if he can ever really leave this wonderful, miserable haven. But the wilderness… it’s irresistible.

With this, he propels himself from the cage and out the window, the lace curtains shifting silently in his wake.

His fear is overcome by the ecstasy of freedom. Liberty. Escape.

He hears that cat meow again, and he knows that he will not survive for long. The turquoise world beyond will give way to lilac then navy then black, and he’ll not live to see the white brilliance of a new sun.

doves-pigeons-flock-flying-hipster-animated-gif.gif
(x)

However… he will have lived a life. He couldn’t have stayed back there, wondering, regretting what could have been.

This is free flight. Liberty.

Escape.

 

Advertisements

[UNTITLED]

If your soul could be a sound, what sound would it be?

“Leonard E. Night, age 27, lives alone in a basement, works in a corporate office downtown… been missing for, what, two weeks? No one had a clue. Odd, isn’t it?”

They reach the door of a small bungalow, hidden deep in slightly malnourished suburbia. Broken tricycles and cigarette stubs litter the street like a wasteland of forgotten dreams: families made of mistakes and last minute weddings. My muse.

They knock on the door three times. There is a patter of footsteps echoed by shrill pleas, and chants of my name. Silence.

The door finally bursts open to a reveal a wiry, ill-tempered mother with a rather unpleasant baby in her arms.

“Can I help you?” she asks with a false, toothy smile. A little girl appears behind the woman’s legs, her eyes brimming.

“I’m Officer Peach with the North York Regional Police; this is my partner, Officer Payne. You called about a missing person?”

Continue reading “[UNTITLED]”

I Fear Silence

Silence is intimidating… to me, anyway. There are some select people in our loud community who do, in fact, embrace Silence. They don’t mind and, if anything, see Silence as an occasional dropper-by with whom they exchange shy glances across a busy street, before getting on with business.

Not me, however. Whether it’s a lull in conversation or the gentle hum of emptiness on weekends, I am intimidated. Why must I be? Silence won’t hurt me. Silence has nothing against me.

Silence doesn’t have an agenda. Does Silence?

Silence likes to massage my shoulders and whisper things in my ear. Scary things. Things I’d rather not remember. Thoughts that usually would drift at the back of my head come to center-stage only when Silence decides to drop by.

My thoughts and Silence converse so easily. They stand on the horizon as dark silhouettes. They stand there, hand in hand, waiting for me to drop my guard long enough for them to pounce and devour.

Silence is stern. Silence watches intently, glares at me from across the room when I am incapable of being interesting to the person with whom I try so desperately to communicate. I try to hint at Silence’s presence, nudge others around me in Silence’s direction and try to make them see its potential for danger. But they never notice my urging. So, I am forced to look hesitantly over again at Silence, who smiles sardonically and settles more comfortably into the armchair.

I ride the bus, sometimes. I try to drive Silence away with music. I remain plugged into my cellphone device like it’s my life support, but Silence still sits next to me. Squishes me against the window. All I can do is sigh, and hope time will fly by as fast as the pipes in the tunnel walls.

Silence will sometimes settle right next to me at any given time – at home, at school, in bed – and play with my hair. Occasionally, Silence will put a hand to my chest, ghostly fingers curling around my heart.

And Silence will settle in: into my heart, soul, and being.

I doze off, but my mind is awake and screaming.

Silence has come to visit. And I fear… Silence has come to stay.

Creation, Blank Spaces, and Imaginary Friends of the sleep deprived mind

It won’t go away. That stupid buzz in my head. That annoying critter that tickles my brain. That…that hole in my mind. No, I don’t think sleeping will help. Sleep is a waste of time.
WHY CAN’T I THINK OF ANYTHING, DAMNIT?! (Sorry, got all street there).
My mind is completely blank and clueless. A dull light looking for somewhere dark to illuminate. Why won’t my light bulb go off? No, I don’t need sleep, I told you that already! What I need is a stroke of inspiration, that colorful bomb, that… creativity. Can you think of anything? I know, it’s hard. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you .Here, make yourself useful, and sharpen these pencils. I’m going to need them when I finally think of something.
My mind won’t stop that buzz! It’s getting louder. It’s like a boring straight line, because it’s not going anywhere but straight. Why is everything so dull and gray? I’m so sleepy… no, I don’t want a pillow. Wait…
BA-BAM.
Scratch scratch scratch goes my pen. My mind is imploding. Lights, colors, pictures, words, ideas, inventions, thoughts, sounds, EVERYTHING I WAS WAITING FOR.
Creation. I’m dizzy with so much creation.
(Isn’t it funny what seems to go on when I think? I think words but I seem to think of them before I think of them. Such a complicated thing to explain. That doesn’t make sense, you say? Well guess what? I don’t give a frying pan.)
My letters flow into words, my words to sentences, my sentences to paragraphs, to pages, to a book… to a master piece. Yeah, that’s what I said… don’t question it.
I wish people understood I’m not weird. I’m not odd. I’m different, and I want to make it known, so I do whatever I want. No, that does not make me impulsive. More like… yeah, I’m impulsive. Chuckle.
I make the page different by… creating. I make the blank space another beautiful space. Another thing to add to that star that is collapsing under its own mass. Yes, I am talking about black holes. No, you stop being so scientific!
I will be. Different, I mean. Definitely. What? Naw, just thinking to myself.
Creating.
I say that a lot, don’t I? You think so? Doesn’t matter. Repetition isn’t important. As long as it counts.
I’m not making sense, am I? You don’t care? Well.
Anyway, will you help me? Take a seat. Pull up a chair. Grab a cuppa java. Some biscuits too, while you’re at it. The strawberry ones, if you please. Yes, those.
Thank you. Yum. That’s better.
So what do you think of this? Is it nice? Is it different? Oh… so that’s how you spell acquiesce.
Thank you once again, imaginary friend. Yes, I will sleep now.
See you tomorrow.