Oh, oiseau, to embody your frail frame, to be ever in motion.
To swoop above the caged existence of the terrestrial.
You, with your sweet summer song,
your fleeting existence...
Before another grey morning dawns on your twisted body,
Grown cold on the unforgiving tarmac.
How different are we from you?
Are we not also transcience?
A gentle breeze blows us over,
Like cardboard cutout houses,
Playing at being rooted on firm foundations.
The façade falls
And we are left
Standing
Naked
In front of the mirror.
Yet, how we deny it.
We consider immortality on this broken shard of a world,
Something to be grasped.
Something to clutch to our throbbing chests.
How arrogant,
How
Futile.
Ironically the two things that remind me of the fragility and insignificance of our confused existences are: the boundlessly colourful, infinite imagination of outer space—and fatal car crashes. There's no lukewarm or easy way to swallow just how small we are, but irrespective of how we embrace it, there is peace once we do.
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