By Myra Gupta
The woodpecker leeches onto the tree looking at the nightingales chirping, admired by every fox. But she’s the only one who’s smart. She sees the lustful glasses and the rose-tinted foxy eyes. The nightingale is fit in the box woven with illusion and all she sees is the caring gaze of the fox.
The nightingale is the delicate melody that flows through the branches and the woodpecker is the unwanted; that just cripples the trunk. Bit. By. Bit. Self-sustaining woodpeckers are objectified as useless-- lonesome.
The foxes prance and dance around the nightingales, waiting to attack as the nightingale takes his cage for protection. The cage is built so smart, there isn’t one possible mistake, is there? She believes the intricate future planned for her as love, not an undying obsession. The woodpecker, although, is smart. She knew loneliness was a blessing, the world that burns as we speak is all the illusions fueled by obsession and pathetic grievers.
She knows love is a messy cover for wanting someone to simply witness; you. The foxes that “shield” their so-called soulmates are so desperate to be witnessed. They don’t let the nightingales be witnessed by anybody else. Their protection is ignited by obsession, anger, and deep wallowing of self-hatred.
It’s truly a pity that most of us are nightingales and foxes in this fucked up cycle. Going unheard and unseen eats them alive. Foxes will cage, attack, capture, and paint a pure image of affection and care, and the nightingales will simply- fall. It isn’t that the nightingales don’t know- they do.
The nightingales chirp a melodious melody and not a shrill cackle to be seen. The bird is always mistaken as the dumber of the two. It’s honestly hilarious. When the entire illusion is built on the foundation she started. The fox is just a pawn of the game out of the three paws in the game. Yet, only one is the grandmaster. The ultimate master of the game is the hand that moves it all.
One either chooses to be the nightingale, entrap a fox, orchestrate the building of a cage, and dream all the fancies- a white picket fence in the suburbs with neighbors who share cookies, a backyard with three kids running.
Or- you’re a woodpecker. You peck the tree the nightingale started on, peck and peck and build a home, where you view the foxes falling for the nightingale. You stop at the starting line believing the finish line is endless. You wallow in the fact you don’t have what it takes to be a nightingale- the courage or the will. Neither a king nor queen nor the hand that moves them all. You’re the person watching it all. Pondering the dilemma. The woodpecker could have easily been the nightingale. But she craves more than the poorly built illusion by the fox. She craves to have eyes that understand it the way she does.
She nests and cradles her soft wings which are mistaken as thorns of protest.
By Myra Gupta
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