19 December 2012
As the sorrowful, blackened sky dips into the jouful warmth of the golden sun each day, the bird will fly again. It will spread its feathers - soft and fragile - to reach for the zenith of his dreams. And as it falls down into the dark mercyless waters after it tastes the absolut joy, it will recall that saying, of a blackened sky falling in the burning flames of a promising sun, crashing those wings once more.
The cycle never ends, the bird will always be trying to fly again, with those same fragile feathers, aiming at the dreamy blue sky, it's utopian journey, the life it can never have. The bird will fall down again and crash and break but that little beating heart will heal all of the blooded wounds and its ripped pride, so that it can spread those wings once more.
The bird falls but never fails to get back to the sky, to try for the same old dream. That's the creature that deserves to live so close to the sun, unlike all of us, left with our broken wings to crawl the Earth, punished, forgotten, never brave enough to try for the sky again.
And Heaven? It looks down to us, its angels laughing at our broken feathers, dusty and pitiful, always facing the mud and the dirty soil. Here we stay - on our beloved safe soil - never trying for the sky, never reaching for the Heavens again.
For The Sky We Dream Of • Opuss № I