You want them to like you. Or rather, you want them to not hate you so much. Not hate you at all, really.
You want them to get past your past sins.
What is it like, you wonder, to hold on to hate for so long? To have to remind yourself over and over again about the bad thing someone did. To cling with sharp, pointy nails to a gurgling, bubbling, putrid mass of slippery, slimy acid. Hate eats away at your insides, you know. Forms gaping holes of darkness. Those holes feel so empty, hungry, they need constant food and attention, but the only food they can consume is more raw hate.
Forgetting is much easier on your system. You don’t even have to forgive to get the benefits of forgetting, though the one often begets the other. Forgetting is smooth, silky warmth. It’s like a blanket that is always the right size. Time encourages forgetfulness. It is a natural part of life. An evolutionary dominate trait, passed down through generations of long-lifers. You know them, the truly happy old folks who can’t remember any of the mean things other folks did, right?
They are the winners, the ones who forget to hate, who live in the bliss of remembered kindness.
It is in your nature to care what others think of you, but try to stop. When next you see them, remember this: The suffering you feel under their hateful gaze is nothing compared to the vile pain they nurture within.
I’m drawing birds despite my fear of them. (Though, I have just discovered, some are more afraid than I am. This is hysterically funny.)
Today I drew a pigeon. I hate pigeons. They are dirty and they do not fear humans. A terrible combination.
After pecking a bit around Google Images, I found a picture I liked of a pigeon with long legs, which is a plus if you are going to draw a bird wearing boxer shorts. Which is a thing now, if you didn’t know.
Hello, my name is Stefan Dobrev Radev. I have been breeding homing pigeons since 1981. The idea about the Pigeon Race Course “Kalimantsi” originated in 2003 and in March 2004 I started its implementation with the help of some friends and colleagues of the Homing Pigeon Breeders Club “Polet” Varna.
A club. For pigeon breeders. How does one become a pigeon breeder? Why does one become a pigeon breeder?
I can’t understand how the race works, but apparently this year’s first prize winner will receive 3500 EUR which is, roughly, 4850 USD. That seems like a lot of money to win for racing a pigeon.
The happy ending is a lie. It isn’t the end that is happy. The end, the real end, is so far off in the distant future that it is impossible to see from here. Here, now, on the inside of a moment. Because that is what it is, a moment. Not an ending or a beginning, just a snipped bit of time. Taken out of context, framed and mounted, and lit with a soft glow, flattering like candlelight.
I’ve put so much weight onto that moment. That moment in the driveway with my car packed, the decisions past, plans fulfilling, journey ahead, trial behind. A slice of perfect time. A deep breath of beautiful free air and then I got into my car and I drove from one life to another. Poor old moment. It is sagging with age now and hasn’t been dusted in a while.
I want that moment back. I want to feel again that blooming, opening, sprouting rush of newness. Of possibility. That solid knowledge that I was the luckiest person in the world. That if everyone in the world could feel the anticipatory joy I felt, if everyone’s jaws ached with the nonstop grin, there’d be no more war or pain anywhere. Perhaps. Maybe. For a moment.
I’m not unhappy. I’m just regular. I’m what people mean when they say, “I’m fine.” “I can’t complain.” I’m alive and healthy and loved and the sun keeps on coming up in the east. The bills are paid. I have clothing and shelter and food and friends. Life is good.
But once upon a time life was brilliant. Once I breathed the air of such intense joy that I couldn’t see the road for the tears.
Once upon a time I lived happily ever after inside a moment. The moment ended, but life continued on.
“Oh if life were made of moments,
Even now and then a bad one,
But if life were only moments,
Then you’d never know you’d had one.” ― Stephen Sondheim, Into the Woods