I watched sparrows snagging scraps from a table outside a window only to remember that I wasn’t outside. The glass creates an illusion between reality and me. One I so easily believe.
Every time I come home, I watch this single insect keep circling trapped, lost, misplaced in the middle of my living room. At the peak of the day, there are six or seven, five or four of them zig-zagging darty little patterns across the open air. Never landing or going anywhere. When I’m not watching, most of them disappear. And yet, at all times, one always remains.
I wonder at what makes these little bits of life so lost here. Is it the angles or the air?
What are they possibly looking for, and do any of them ever find it? Or do they only die in trying, my used-plastic broom sweeping them away through the doorway on various days.
Am I so much apart from them that I can never know?
Our hearts appear to be open, but our eyes are closed against reality. Like windows we see out but never touch the other side. What brings us to this precipice, and what — if anything — can make us fall?
I keep my mouth shut when I should speak because I don’t know how to keep the hatred and anger at bay. I have an abundance of pity and vengenge.
But I know that I should love.