Whim

I wish to be a cockroach and surrender my capacity to hear human noise. To run on thin cursorial legs and cause great worry when taken to flight. I wish to be a mere worm, roiling in the undergrowth, feeding through my skin rather than facing complex digestion. That way, every place is a home. I needn’t worry about upset stomach. Food will be plenty. No fretting about salt or ingredients. But hope is non-existent and human life is too modern to vanquish.

I wish to be a bird and fill the sky with sweet melodies. I could be born with vibrant plumes of exuberant colours instead of dressing my mundane body with strips of coloured cloth. I am exhausted with artificiality and crave to return to my most natural roots. I wish to spread my wings, however tiny, and glide carelessly through the air. Then beat them rapidly to climb great altitudes. Wrap them around my streamlined body, sink towards the earth like a stone, and feel the wind buffeting my feathered cheeks. No parachutes or flying tin cans. If it weren’t for such hopeless mimicry and false content of the human race.

I especially love it when our mimicry falls apart at tiny scales. A gnat manoeuvres expertly through raindrops. How I would love to be a gnat! Many humans wondered the same. Then they blew into the drops until they puffed up, called them bombs, strapped themselves into sharp-nosed jets, and manoeuvred through them.

I could be an animal on the ground where shelter means only a roof and food means everything edible. Where I would not think twice about beauty and accept whatever I got. Most importantly, share the kill and live in harmony. Drink water straight from a river or a lake. Climb tall trees, leap across the canopy hooting loudly. Steal from farms and stir chaos.

On the other hand, I could remain fixed to the ground and sprout branches with green leaves. Appear still and motionless when you and I both know what happens to my feet. Searching for water, I move steadily under the ground. As I grow, I become more firmly attached to the earth, drinking with my feet!

Or live deep in the ocean of vast space. Swimming up and down and hitchhiking on the backs of whales and turtles. Breathing in water and sifting through edible particles. Shimmering and glittering scales that bounce the sunlight and seed desire in our hearts. Then the fishing boats arrive. My only chance is to dive further, where the sun retreats. Dangers will come and the struggle is always present. Such a life is uncertain and that defining quality is beautiful when compared to a life subdued by comfort. Or stressed due to demands in service, production, and consumption. Life in the ocean is utterly oblivious, yet internally peaceful.

Or how about being dust? Scattered motes of gold suspended in light air.

Or pure wind? Grazing the tops of rivers, crashing into objects, eroding mountains and rocks. Imparting a tantalising scent. Bathing bodies with warmth or snatching it away.

Or plain water. Reflecting what it sees. Flowing and flourishing. Staying still and yet, flourishing. The harbinger of life. Soft and hard. Silent and cacophonous. Infinite calm and violent unrest. A perfect duality.

A perfect life.