When Bluebirds Fly

❝Come on little birdie, fly away before the wind toys with you and swallows you whole.❞

A small bluebird was teetering on the edge of a thick branch of the enormous oak tree with flourishing leaves. A puff of wind could effortlessly knock it down and leave behind only a pile of lifeless, beautiful feathers. Its mellifluous voice would no longer float among the trees as each falling leaf would bury its limp body. The happiness it once gave to people, if lucky, would now be kindly mentioned in poems written by pensive artists in an elaborate fashion and read by literary enthusiasts who never got an opportunity to hear it's joyous songs, wishing that the foolish bird hadn't sealed its fate.

If it wasn't lucky, it would be forgotten- truly forgotten. Forever. As if it's entire existence based on spreading warmth and delight was pointless.

Why wasn't it flying away before the wind could overpower it? Why wasn't it asking for help?

Why didn't I escape? Why didn't I ask for help?

I massaged my temples wearily and my eyes now focused closer on my own clear reflection on the spotless window, unable to look at the stupid, swaying bird anymore. Dull, sunken eyes, bumpy skin, and fried, uneven blue-dyed hair stared back at me. What had I done to myself?

I twisted my unkempt hair into a tight bun- so tight that it hurt the back of my head. Slowly, I averted my eyes to my plain bag, feeling the rise of sadness bubble in my throat. Why did I make myself look so hideous?

Swallowing hard, I reached into my bag, but my fingers couldn't find the worn out edges of my black diary. I felt a momentary surge of panic take hold of my body as I pulled the bag on my lap and peeped inside. My fat diary was gone along with the agonising truth of my past. A past which happened days before and yet, it seemed far away like a distant, misty dream.

I felt safer pretending that it wasn't close to me- that it wasn't once me.

Perhaps now I could write my own story- a happier one. In a daze, I retrieved an empty notebook and placed it in front of me on the table. The blank pages fluttered, urging me to grasp a pen and spill ink on them. Taint them with my past.

No, no, no. I was going to cleanse them with a blissful story for me. I would tirelessly continue creating a world for me until there would be happiness in it. Until the pages would be satisfied by the tiny words dancing merrily on them.

I looked around the quiet library for a minute. People read soundlessly, their glasses balancing low on the bridge of their noses and long hands resting on the identical tables. Would they find me pathetic, a gloomy girl desperately trying to erase the unfortunate events which stormed on her, ruined her?

I let out a shaky breath and gripped the smooth pen, gliding its tip on the white page. Every movement felt like a gruelling chore and a part of my mind was screaming to not go through this torture again. No, no, not torture, I would give myself a content life albeit it was imaginary.

Words dripped out of my painfully squeezing heart on the pages as if honey was oozing out of the honeycomb. It destroyed the home of the bees just like it made my home- my heart feel devastated. Crushed. Violated. Putting it into words made it real, too real.

The back of my head continued throbbing as I loosened my bun a little and didn't stop dismally pouring my lovely fantasies which soon transitioned into harrowing nightmares. The truth always crawled over the words, tugging and twisting at their lengths and engulfing them. It wickedly made the feeble words move like helpless puppets as I watched them lose control and cause mayhem. I took a sharp breath and ripped the first page off, the sound of the paper tearing drew everyone's attention around me.

I winced and lowered my head, avoiding the curious gazes. A sudden rush of anger mixed with the determination made me crumple the paper and vehemently scribble again on a fresh one, this time how ludicrous I created my world to be, it didn't matter. I knew how hard I tried, the distressing truth would always sneak in, but it didn't matter. Nothing really mattered in the catastrophic end since tragic reality would remain unchanged so I would simply write. I would let the words dance however they wanted to and if the pages weren't satisfied then they be damned.

I would unburden my woes on these poor sheets of my diary and let them carry my cries of anguish. For they were produced to silently bear my heavy feelings, the ones which I fancied to be a delicious secret, but deep down I wanted to leave those parts of me to be discovered. I couldn't shout about it on top of ny lungs or broadcast it on gigantic billboards because it was private, embarrassing, bizarre. It separated me from countless others, yet I wanted that one special person to find those strange feelings and thoughts of mine- to understand, relate and love that damaged, freakish parts of me. To be oddballs together.

So here were my four stories and a truth hidden somewhere in between for you to discover.