'Hey', she just asked this random guy coming out of his hostel room, 'do you know what to do with a bird with one wing?'
'Kill it.' A short, certain and determined response.
'Whoa ..?'
'Kill it. A bird has to fly. It has to be with its friends.'
Her heart contracted. A hurtful message. It was like he was talking to her about her and not about the bird. Te hostel is empty. So empty. Every one is gone. Every one just left. I feel one winged, too. Not able to fly to the sky to my friends, that I can't recognise on earth.
'I had a New Zealand friend', the random guy continued, 'he had a bird the same and it died after three to four days. He fed it. He gave it water. It just died. A bird has to fly.'
They were looking each other in their eyes. She was frightened. He was certain. 'This one is a special one. It won't die', she said. Hoping that she will be right.
But how is a life, when you can't fly anymore? When that what you are is get taken away from you? Well as humans we identify with jobs and what we have done in our lives. We identify with our passions and interests. How do we feel, if that, what we love most in our lives is get taken away? Lost? Empty? Lifeless? Numb?
We have the ability to create our self new. The one winged bird doesn't has a chance like that. But do we have the strength and the energy to create or selfs over and over again new? Or is every new creation just a step on the ladder towards the true self? Like this one shoe didn't fit, therefore I have to try an other one .. until this one shoe comes, that fits the best? … and this one you get in thousand of different colours.