out of time (the song of the blackbird)

OUT OF TIME (the song of the blackbird)

If he could have been bothered to think anything, it would have been something like…..   ‘this is pretty nice really’

He’d had another row with Emily; it wasn’t so much the row but the mental turmoil that came afterwards. Turmoil of thoughts, none of which had an answer, or even a focussed direction. A dark unsettling churning in the skull, stress made manifest as a black amorphous demon with dull, disinterested bloodshot eyes. But now there was pretty much a calm sea of no-thought.

They’d jumped him as he walked in the evening park. Trying to out-walk the demon. Two of them, demanding his wallet, mobile….. telling them to fuck off was a bad move. So now Elias lay, dying probably, as his blood seeped generously out of the knife wounds. And his thoughts had seeped out with it until there was nothing in his head. We humans live our lives both giving and receiving. Elias, if he still was Elias, was no longer a giver, except of blood. He could do nothing but receive in what was left of his conscious mind.

And so it happens that ……sounds ….or …..something that he had once known what they were…… drop crystal clear into the ocean of his being. Each drop of crystal splitting into a thousand shards, each shard of such unutterable beauty that it demands his total attention, his admiration, his adoration.

The blackbird sings.

It sees with bright eyes the person lying on the grass and the other people now running over to him.

It means nothing.

The job of the bird-with-no-name is to condense a small drop from the world of wonder in which it flies, to crystallise that condensed drop, then release it into the air.

Whether it is received or appreciated is not the concern of the bird-with-no-name, as the next gem of sound is already forming in it’s beak.