I liken you to a bird, and I like you free. I want to nest with you and be just as free. If you are a bird, I am a bird.

But, (there always is one lurking around the bend, is it not?) I wonder if the bird flies freely or is guided by something. I sit inside the eye of a bird traversing the sea and I try to take in the scenery of an endless ocean below me and an endless sky above. There is thrill in that. A glimpse of freedom. I sit still and watch as the ocean glides past me. With no land in sight, I begin to contemplate how long will my flight last. How did the bird know how much energy it needed to store, how did the bird know how much it would have to fly? How did the bird know that land will be there when it is tired, or when it is night? Did it, or was it a flight of faith.

Migratory birds, I am told, learn from their parents. They fly with their parents first, not freely as one thinks a bird to be. They learn to glide, and they learn to swoop, they learn to make sense of the internal compass through and through. They are brought up, and I surmise, they are kept aloft when they are tired. The flock builds their stamina. Though an interesting off shoot idea would be to ask, "who taught the parents", and it can't be turtles all the way down. So, one explanation could be, they learnt over time. Some, by accident. Others extended their capabilities little by little, or first discovered land based sub-optimal routes. Then, as is the nature of nature to conserve energy over time, the limits were extended with better optimization. Finally, it is traditionally passed down as the flock takes the annual migratory pilgrimage. On the other hand, one could ask, do all migratory birds survive? Also, what about the non-migratory birds? What would they do? The untrained, unskilled, the Icaruses of the aviaries? Well, I read that some of them crash into water and die. Or they land on flotsam and starve if not rescued. And I shudder while still beholding the view from its eye. So much for freedom! Some, not this one!

As I contrast you to a bird, the wind begins to blow. Always eager to fly, always eager to fly. And I wonder if you are more of a bird or a kite, that is tugging the anchor to come along. As the wind blows harder, I am now sitting on this kite, feeling the wind making me shiver through and through except for the wooden ribs that bind my paper wings. You are pushing forward, trying to break free, trying to pull the other end of the chord with yourself (and perhaps, with a faith that the chord is taut, that the chord will not let you down). There is thrill in this, there is freedom in this tussle, but there is also love and affection. You are pulling the one holding the chord to come along, to fly along. The anchor is saying, careful, baby, careful, we shouldn't rush in now, should we? And when the winds are right, and your sail is fluent, the anchor tugs you back momentarily and then loosens the hold as you roar to a new height. Through you, the anchor experiences glee as you soar, the anchor experiences pain as the chord cuts his hands; The anchor learns concern and care, and also pride in your stride. He'd lace the chord with glass to cut down everything that threatens your flight - everything. it might be his ego to see you there on the top, or it might just be love!

Look what you do, look at all the funny places I go.

Aesthetic Blasphemy | Silhouette of a boy flying a kite