BE THE PIGEON NOT THE STATUE

We keep overlooking the tell-tale signs for long, side-stepping the sign board by the mile-marker that says, ‘The Road’s Under Repair.’ It gives us a fierce sense of salvation to walk down the impossible path. A warrior’s cloak and mantle is forever propped up with fugacious braces and straps that we keep fitting ourselves into, in life’s trial room. All in a suppressed mental frame! For armour there is a ‘trained’ mind sharp as a steel trap. Endurance lessons know no speed-breakers to those who have known a less than kind destiny.

’We become self-conscripted warriors in battles of emotions that bleed.

Hearts roll over stones. Minds avoid marshy peat bogs. Bodies travel the length of packed turf, knowing no rest.’

Why do we need validation from ‘exes’, friends, middle aged tropes, pointy hair bosses managing by slogan, confederates, syndicates at the office and more?

The list of ‘shockers and displacements’ that qualify us towards ‘sob fest’ kings or queens are endless. Divorced mothers after decades of ‘happy show,’ single nurturers trying to blow the competition out of the water, believing their mother’s milk had to be regenerative to the superlatives. Men trying to corral their energy as hunters, ribald leaders of a pack! See humans running rat marathons to prove their fidelity, virility or fertility. You find people pounding away at the gavel to buy your happiness. Gone is your primal bliss, like an extinct species.

If you’re lucky you manage the secret stipulation in the will. It hits almost mid life to realize ‘You’ve been the statue; pigeons have pooped upon at their convenience.’ Biggest lesson! Be the free pigeon instead. For God’s sake don’t be the dumb statue standing impenetrable, unfeeling and unmoved; rooted to a random observer’s shame, being forever splattered with bird shit.

’Let me be around me for heart of hearts I am my own baby. This baby lives the singing meadows, bursting streams, wailing rains, howling winds of the seven stages in the womb of nature’s timeline. Certainly outdoes the nine months of a secure female womb. Lying stripped, unsheltered, unveiled to the elements of the world. Marching on to a blessed disruption and unrest!

Statues take shit because statues don’t validate. Validate you must, your existence to yourself! Flail a sword; protect the unimpeachable child that seeks refuge in the world of wide hope inside. Your job is to build a strong ramp, a great stair rail that offers solid asphalt to that child to take on wheels in the tracks for life. The race begins with you, ends in you. You are the effort, endeavour and the prize. Masonry doesn’t need a genetic lottery! Go man! Pick up the tools clothed in your father’s flesh! Take a dip in the spring of your mother’s love. They gave you the ticket to a winning lottery. There are no battlegrounds. You are no statue. ‘Love Yourself, Manage Yourself’ and be free. May all illusions rest!