Birds of a feather.
Display gorgeous feathers. They manipulate the air and water, and are aware of it. They sing the songs of that which they are, and who they are. They exist to exist, together.
This however is not the focus.
That’s just my observation. I also observe other things.
He rests. He even rested for me, he just didn’t know it. I was talking with my friend J in the kitchen, noticed it, had to run to my bedroom to get my camera.
This is my favourite of probably 10 exposures.
He sat there, singing every now and then. Relieved himself and left.
He probably has a good idea how to provide both for himself and others. He is aware. He lives with intent. He knows what is and what isn’t, well, maybe not, but we’ll never know.
He emerged from his shell, and the first thing that he did was cry. He was hungry.
Funny. We all do that as humans too. I’m doing it right now. But that’s life. Still, let’s try to avoid the unpleasantries. Like people who do that badly. You know, live out of character.
This one seems just fine. He lives with grace. The story of his life speaks to me. Free as a bird as they say.
Listening and singing at the same time. Sounds like a good way to learn from it.
Actions have consequences. He knows this. He’s aware. He knows how to live. He knows how to live poorly. I’m pretty sure It’s not staging anything.
That’s because he is. He’s still. Not necessarily quiet.
This is a photograph. This not a video. It is not witness of action being processed. It is a witness of a moment in time itself. Of things, taken by things. Energy was taken, received, and converted to light.
Stare at your phone for a moment and think about that. Are you smiling?
We are witnesses of this moment in time. We are present in it. Now present in thought. We are seeking something.
What is the song? What is he trying to say? What is the language? What is the message? What do I mimic? How do I cry my song? How do I be me?
I didn’t think that. We did. We just didn’t realize it.
One must sing one’s song to get along.
Pronouns are both objective and subjective.
I’m a Man, so is He. Men cry. First thing we did was cry. Weakness is strength.
Ha. There’s a thought.
Hope I’m not walking on eggshells. Whoops.
I jest. All. The. Time.
Then, for moments in time. I’m witnessed being still and quiet.
Energy is subjective. In my life. I fight with a cry and a feather.
Hammers are subjective, as are stones, as is water.
As are birds.
Sometimes what I think is the same is the same as what is. Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s absolutes.
Absolutes are good. They are objective.
As are birds.
What’s good for one bird isn’t necessarily good for the others.
There’s one right there, an absolute. The bird’s gone. Not missing.
Away. It’s indifferent to the current.
