I was walking home late tonight when an early riser claimed my energies. A bird, unseen, conveying its presence through a repeated "caw-ah!, caw-HAH!", the sound presumably arcing its way from the nearest tree, around a neighboring house and depositing itself with me. Birdsong is the bookend of purpose; it has the power to commence motivation or to demolish it just as swiftly. Eager melodies in the morning are a call to action, providing your average human being with a feel of camaraderie and assimilation, a comforting lack of the unique. The whole ecosystem seems to rise together, encouraging zest under the pretense of natural prerogative. At night, we have more purpose the longer we remain awake; surely one must be necessary and important to need to sacrifice their precious sleep.
The moment when the birds awake, however, is terrifyingly timeless. It is not just a sound; it changes vision, smell, and feel all at once. Surely, we assume, not all birds can awake at the same time. Yet the frenzied argument of the first is layered enough to be perceived as the declaration of a people. This is a time that no being should experience. It betrays the psychological expectations of the biological clock, melding night and day, light and darkness. Whereas in the evenings this moment passes without thought, it is guarded before dawn by the "caw-HAH!"s that proclaim "What are you doing here? There is no reason to be here." All at once, one notices how bright the night inherently is, instead of how dark the day can become. The dying warmth of day becomes the present cold of its expectation, and ego is shattered. The night, the tool of purpose, the vehicle for executing necessity of any kind that simply cannot be contained in the waking hours, becomes silly and pretentious. This moment indicates, quite simply, the irrational disregard of a crucial human function. It holds not simply the power to truncate, but to utterly delegitimize.
I sleep now, perhaps due to the neglect of a mother, or the flimsiness of a supporting branch, whatever it is that causes such a drastically early riser. Maybe it is the first word, blind in infancy to the conventions of cyclical time. One thing is sure; it's beginning is my end.
Trying to figure if neon yellow trainers are fashionable or make me look like a fleeing soccer player/clown combination.