Windows, Birds, and the Song in the Words

One of my favorite things to do is to watch windows when going on drives. Another is watching pigeons and birds in general. And how words are very close to my heart.

When the bat hits hard, and it happens a lot these days �" something I am learning to greatly appreciate �" I go to a place within myself that nobody can touch. A place where the fabric of the ever changing perception of reality flows with the melody of the lost yet never forgotten sound of wind chimes on a breeze that isn’t there. I realize in typing this, that 98% of you have no idea of the feeling I speak of. The sensation of losing yourself within yourself, and being fully who you are meant to be as a person, standing apart from everyone around you, knowing they will never see what you do right now. I have had a few people tell me that they would love to see the world through my eyes just for a day, to think through the mental imaging of the stained glass mentality that is the ever present reality for someone who is severely Aspergers. This chapter is about a few things that I can explain the best, and how my mental story sees them, through the glasses of one who can see the world that most cannot enter.

Birds are the animals I’ve always considered to be the closest to me �" more so than my dog and my cat, whom I love with all my heart, even come close. Birds are, to me, the epitome of freedom. They live their lives looking down upon a world that none can see, that none will experience but the birds themselves. Perched on power lines and the tops of the trees, the birds look down upon the world that they see. They take in the cars, the roads, the people and the rain, and see them all dancing their ever changing game. They see a world floating swiftly by, from a different perspective seen only by those who fly. I watch them as they dip and dive, and realize that as they do so, they are truly alive. They twitter and sing to others alike, watching the people from the perspective of the wind lifting a kite. Breathless and free, they will never tell a soul. Of the images they see, seeing the world as a whole.

Sometimes I will sit under the tree near my school, watching them wander around the grounds aimlessly looking for food. I especially like the pigeons. They have a funny way of walking, as if they agree with everything around them. By that I mean, with every step, their head bobs back and forth. The faster they go, the faster it bobs. They are very pretty birds, very sleek with feathers the color of burnished steel,their eyes twinkling when the light dances though the tree branches and hits them. Sometimes I sit and talk with them, knowing they can’t understand a word I’m saying. I’m not one of those people in the park who rave at them, arguing the facts of life and why it’s their fault that Obama can’t raise the money for, and on and on and on. I just talk to them to clear my head, to think things through. They listen with ununderstanding ears, and look back with eyes that are uncaring and apathetic to my words. I understand this, but they are fun to talk to. Not because they understand, but because they listen despite the fact they can’t. I probably sound like a nutter, but there is a certain peacefulness to the act of doing so.

Windows. They are, and always will be, incredibly beautiful to me. Let me explain that odd perspective that I have found not many share. On the buss, moving sluggishly on my way into Austin, the light reflects in such a way that I am entranced by the pictures sliding across their liquid surfaces. They flow across the smooth face, glinting like moonlight turned liquid and poured down their flawless surface. Smooth as silk, soft as the rain, it slides unabated as it rolls across the ever flowing surface like molten silver. Something you can’t touch or hold in your hand. Something that only the smoothness of the glass in windows flitting by can capture. It fills my mind with a peacefulness and calm that only they can bring. It has a life of its own in a sense, and one that is ever changing, and I will never see the same reflection twice. It is beautiful to me, and I enjoy the simple experience of watching the car windows along the ever crowded streets of the city.

I have always been good with words. Well, let me clarify. I have always been good at /typed/ words. When it comes to people, I realize that nobody really cares. That nobody wants to stop and exchange them, and its understandable. Because of this, I am only good with talking to people I am close to, and people who talk to me first. With the written word though, I am good at talking with everybody. If they are reading the words, they obviously care about their contents. Because of this fact, I can arrange them in such a way that my mind won’t let me do in the world of spoken language. Here, I’ll show you.

The rain hits softly
On the time roof over head
Hitting in time
Creating melodies in my head
Softly they tap
Their sorrowful toon
Of a life come and past
In the glint of the moon
Falling they sigh
Upon the ground below
Wet with the song of angels
Filled with moonlight glow
I listen quietly to the song
Of their quiet melody
On the roof made of tin
With silent grace
As the song washes over me
I sigh in sadness
As their song stops singing
On the roof made of tin
With that soft metallic ringing

I can’t do that verbally. I don’t know why. It’s one of those things that I can’t explain if I tried to. I simply… Hear the music in the words when I write, move the notes so they make a song, and play them for the world to hear. It’s a lot of fun to do. Just something I can’t explain any better. I wish I could.